Something Like Olivia
by ameliagianna
Summary: Welcome to 'Something Like Olivia', a series of oneshots centered around—you guessed it—Olivia Dunham. Lots of Polivia, but other stuff, too. Title credit to John Mayer's 'Something Like Olivia'.
1. Weakness

**(A/N: This is a little thing I wrote about how Olivia deals. All we really see is her being strong, so I needed something to make her a little more—I don't know—relatable? Human? Regardless, here it is. Minor, **_**minor**_** Polivia. If you don't like Polivia, it's easy to dismiss. But if you don't, this may not be the best place to be. Because I LOVE POLIVIA.)**

Olivia Dunham isn't perfect.

And some days, that's okay. Most of the time, she can accept her little flaws and imperfections; they're what make her human.

But on a day like today, the littlest, most miniscule thing will eat at her, taunting and torturing her.

And, without fail, she'll make her way to the shower.

It doesn't matter if she's already showered that day, it doesn't matter if other things beckon for her attention. This is just her ritual, and without it she may just break down completely.

Or, god forbid, have a meltdown in front of someone else. Like Peter. Or Broyles. Or Walter or Astrid.

With her team, she is strong. She has to be, it's in her job description. But at home, in the privacy of her shower, she's free to self-loathe as long as she's got hot water. On occasion, even past that.

Though today, even with the extra-special brand of ache on her mind, she knows it won't go that far.

She's already made her decision before the key's in the lock. The door swings open, slams shut. She throws her keys haphazardly on the countertop in the kitchen and shuffles to her bedroom.

She undresses, neither fast nor slow.

Then, completely naked in more ways than one, she pads to the bathroom. The routine ingrained in her, she flips the shower on—blistering hot.

She goes to the mirror. Her eyes, dark and hollow, sit atop deep purple rings of exhaustion. Her pallor's gone ghost-white, and her hair falls dull and limp over her shoulders and down her chest and back. Her eyes jump back to her mouth, where she's biting roughly on her lower lip. She lets the swollen flesh go, and with a final sweep of her reflection before the mirror fogs over, she turns and steps into the shower.

Her sickly-pale is quickly wiped out with the bright pink of new skin, the boiling water washing away the day.

She tilts her head back into the spray, soaking through her hair and letting the showerhead assault her scalp. Runoff splashes down her face and into her open eyes and parted mouth.

The water tastes of poison, but it's all in her head.

She stands and lets the water for several minutes, until she's sure her entire body's drenched and soaked. Then, and only then, she backs herself into the corner and sinks to the floor. Her back arches forward slightly, against two walls with an empty space between. The cold tile paired with the breeze on her spine makes her shiver.

She pulls her knees tight against her chest, her breasts pressed flat to her thighs. The spray just reaches her ankles and lower calves, but bounces off of her and the unobstructed floor to fly up and hit her face.

She lays her head down, on the round tops of her kneecaps.

And she cries.

Her tears mostly blend with the shower water; the only time Olivia can tell the difference is when she can taste the saltiness of her weakness.

She doesn't know how long she sits there. Her joints ache from the uncomfortable position, but the water's still lukewarm. But she knows she's done, for now. Unfolding herself and standing up, she flips off the water and is left in the chilly, steam-infused bathroom.

She retrieves her towel from the hook on the wall and wraps it around her torso, pushing back the curtain and stepping out.

She doesn't dwell in the bathroom any longer, its purpose has been served, and escapes back to her bedroom.

She glances at her clock, but doesn't really look at the time. She knows it's late, but not as late as it could be. She's stayed up much later before. Hell, she was up later than this all week.

Her towel drops to the floor, forgotten, and she moves on to the closet. She selects blindly, feeling for something soft and warm. Her hand emerges with a long-sleeve cotton tee, and again with a pair of thick sweatpants. And while she doesn't bother with a bra, she does retrieve a pair of simple black panties.

Dressed, she picks up her discarded clothes from earlier, pulling her gun and her phone from the pile and placing them on the nightstand.

She leaves the bedroom and ventures to the kitchen. She finds her bottle of whiskey in its normal cabinet and pours herself a single glass.

It's gone in a heartbeat, glass abandoned in the sink and bottle returned before heading back to her room. She slips in between the covers and finds a comfortable position.

The one good thing about these days, she'll go to bed early and sleep through the night.

Her eyes have just fallen when her phone rings, but she reaches for it calmly. "Dunham," she answers, throat hoarse and thick.

"Hey," and it's Peter. His voice, even over the phone, tumbles into her head and has her heart pounding a little faster. "You okay?" he asks, obviously hearing the change in her voice.

She smiles, just slightly, falling back onto her pillow. "Yeah," she says, "I'm okay." And, for now, it's true.

**(A/N: I know I don't really specify what's bothering her, but it's meant to fit almost anywhere in the storyline of Fringe. And, in my opinion, it may just be the best thing I've ever written.)**


	2. Meet the Parents

**(A/N: Okay, this story is **_**major**_** AU. Honestly, it was just something I came up with out of nowhere and went with. I like the premise, but it would require too much changing of the actual storyline to even start to place. Just…fill in the gaps with whatever comes natural. I tried to stay as close to actual while still being in a whole other dimension. Reviews are greatly appreciated, please include chapter names for my benefit. Sidenote, this is her biological father, not the abusive stepfather. No one likes him.)**

Olivia Dunham was nervous.

It made no sense. She battled the impossible and saved the world on a weekly basis, head held high. But the fluttering in her stomach and the dampness of her palms were unmistakable.

She even let Peter drive. _That_'s how nervous she was.

He hummed idly to the quiet rhythm floating from the radio, seemingly oblivious to the torment Olivia was feeling deep within herself.

But she should've known better than to doubt Peter Bishop, especially when it came to her.

"You okay?" he prodded lightly, already gauging an answer on her reaction.

She heaved a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm good," she lied.

"You're lying, but okay." He pretended to let it go, but she knew that even while driving he was watching her minutely, trying to figure out what was _really_ wrong.

She saved him the trouble. "I'm a little nervous," she confessed, shrinking back into the leather seat.

He chuckled. "Aren't I supposed to be the nervous one?" After all, I am meeting your parents."

Olivia glanced out the window, stalling her response. She recognized their surroundings immediately, and started to calculate an ETA, partly to distract herself and partly because it was habit.

"Hello? Earth to 'Livia?" his voice faded into her ears.

"What?" she asked, missing something.

"I asked how much farther we go."

"Oh," she said. "Just up ahead, take the second right." She pointed her finger in the direction she wanted him to follow.

He nodded and continued driving.

Olivia noticed that the closer they got to the house, the more nervous she felt. It wasn't the only thing she felt, but it was certainly one of the strongest.

And when they pulled up out front, she could've sworn her stomach contained a gymnastics event. The only thing that eased her was Rachel's car already in the driveway.

Rachel knew Peter. Rachel liked Peter. Hell, even Ella like Peter.

But the second they reached the bright red door, Olivia found her skin crawling and the back of her neck tingling.

Peter grabbed her hand and interlaced their fingers, standing still a moment before reaching up and rapping his knuckles against the painted door.

They could hear a boisterous giggling, and Olivia let slip a smile before the door swung open to reveal her father, Ella draped over his shoulder and trying to wiggle out of his grip.

"Olive!" he boomed at her, grinning widely. "And Peter!" he added, the smile not slipping but a mischievous light glinting in his eyes.

"Hi, Dad." Olivia stepped over the threshold and past her father and niece, pulling Peter behind her with an iron grip on his hand. He didn't say anything, but a gentle squeeze when they entered the living room of the cozy house sent a small jolt of reassurance, and something else, through her.

"Hi Uncle Peter!" Ella called, still over her grandfather's shoulder but no longer struggling.

Rachel emerged then from the kitchen and rushed at Olivia, pulling her into an embrace. "Hi," she whispered next to her ear. Olivia released Peter's hand to return the hug, and when they pulled apart Rachel smiled at her sister. She turned to Peter. "Hi, Peter. Good to see you," she said, still smiling.

"You too, Rach," he replied, smiling back.

The girlish giggling resumes behind them, but now Ella's fleeing her grandfather's tickling fingers.

She rushes at Peter, and he bends to catch her mid-stride, swinging her up and onto his waist. Her pencil-thin legs wrap around his torso, and, somehow, Peter seems to hold the child with an amount of ease.

"Oh my! Ella, are you getting taller? I swear, you've grown two whole feet!" he jokes.

"That's because you're holding me, silly!" she shouts, and pokes the tip of Peter's nose with her finger. "Silly Peter," she says, quieter, and it's almost endearing.

Olivia struggles to pull her eyes from the pair, but forces herself to turn and disappears into the kitchen. She finds her mother standing over the stove, stirring something slowly.

"Mom," she breathes out, and the woman turns to her.

"Oh, Olive." She crosses the small kitchen and embraces her, rubbing her hands in slow, calming circles over her elder daughter's back.

"How are you?" she asks, still tucked against her mother's shoulder.

She pulls away just enough to look at Olivia. "I have both my daughters and my granddaughter under one roof, how do you think I am?"

Olivia smiles, and her mother turns to go back to the stove. Wooden spoon in hand, she asks, "So, where's Peter?"

"Uh, he's out in the living room with everyone. I should probably go check on him."

"Okay, sweetheart."

Olivia reappears in the living room, where Peter and Ella have begun a game of checkers while her father sits back on the couch.

"So, Peter, what do you do for a living?"

Peter makes a move, jumping one of Ella's pieces. "Um…"

"He's a consultant. He helps out with cases," Olivia interjects.

"Yeah," Peter agrees. "My father and I both do work with the FBI, on occasion," he says with a slight smirk.

A silent look of agreement passes between the two, and Ella's brow furrows in thought as she looks at the board.

"I like Grandpa Walter. He's silly," she says dismissedly, and then jumps two of Peter's pieces and beams in triumph.

Olivia takes a spot beside her father on the couch and Peter's seat on the floor.

He leans back against her legs and she places a hand on his shoulder, her thumb discreetly brushing against the nape of his neck.

"So, Olive, what's the FBI got you doing nowadays?" her father asks, leaning in and putting his arm up behind her shoulders.

Olivia swallows, "Oh, you know, just catching bad guys," she half-lies.

"Oh, I'm sure you're just being modest. You probably save the world on a daily basis."

Peter coughs.

"Whatever you say, Dad," she adds quickly.

Ella makes another move, and looks up at Olivia. "How's Gene, Aunt Liv?"

Olivia smiles. "Gene's good. Walter took her on a field trip just a few weeks ago."

"Who's Gene? Another agent?" her father asks.

"Gene is a cow, Dad," Rachel says, returning from elsewhere in the house. "She stays in the lab where Dr. Bishop works." She takes the remaining seat on the couch beside her sister.

"A cow _and_ a lab, huh?"

"My father's a scientist," Peter explains.

"We do experiments with Astrid!" Ella exclaims.

Olivia turns to her father, "Another agent."

"Ah," he says. "Your father sounds like an interesting man."

"You have no idea," Peter whispers and Olivia smacks him gently, causing Rachel to giggle.

Marilyn pokes her head out of the kitchen and calls, "Dinner's almost ready. Girls, can you help me dish up?"

The two sisters stand, Olivia tousling both Peter and Ella's hair on her way to the kitchen.

Rachel is handed a stack of plates while Olivia gets the silverware, and they set the table for six. Next is food, a large dish of spaghetti in the center of the table, a plate of garlic bread on the left and a bowl of salad on the right.

The remaining members are called in and sat at the table. Everyone is served and digs in to the home-cooked meal. Idle chitchat passes between the group, laughing over childhood memories of Olivia and Rachel and an amusing, yet slightly disturbing tale of Walter singing to Ella and Gene makes Olivia and Peter exchange nervous glances, but her father simply bursts into laughter.

The meal winds down and Marilyn excuses herself to begin the dishes. Peter offers to help, and isn't dissuaded at all when the eldest Dunham woman tries to insist on performing the chore alone.

Ella volunteers to dry, and Olivia, Rachel, and their father sit at the table and continue talking.

With dinner dishes cleared, Ella happily announces that dessert will consist of apple pie and vanilla ice cream. Olivia and Rachel end up with those dishes, but Peter jumps in to help with drying.

They reenter the living room to find Ella and her grandfather started on a game of checkers with her grandmother sits on the couch with her reading glasses and a book.

Eventually, the game is finished and Ella is herded off to bed by Rachel.

Olivia and Peter say their goodbyes and thank yous.

In the car, Olivia opts to drive them back to the hotel. She takes Peter's hand in hers. "Thank you," she says, "for all this. Tonight was fun," she adds with a smile.

"Yeah, it was," he agrees. "You had no reason to be nervous."

The drive back to the hotel is quiet.

In their room, Olivia stops Peter just inside the door and pulls him against her, lips meeting his with a passion that he hadn't anticipated.

When they break apart for air, he whispers, "Wow."

She smirks at him and pushes his jack off his shoulders, leaving it abandoned on the floor as they move in the direction of the bed. She continues to undress him until he stops her with an equally intimate kiss, her jacket and shirt quickly shed.

Everything after is a tangle of bodies and discarded clothes and bedsheets. Somewhere, between kisses, Olivia leans in to Peter's ear and whispers, "I love you."

He grins at her. She'd expressed the sentiment before, but never said it in so many words. He kisses her neck and, breath warm against her neck, he whispers back, "I love you."


	3. Promise

When Peter had left the hospital that night, he hadn't been alone.

He hadn't intended on being caught in the act. She just happened to step off the elevator the second he finished signing the discharge papers.

His face betrays him.

"Hey," she'd said softly, pulling off her gloves and tucking them in her jacket pocket. "Goin' somewhere?"

She'd said it like a joke, but her surprise appearance had confused him and he didn't take it as on, instantly looking guiltily down at the floor.

"What are you doing here?" he mumbles, trying and failing to mask his plans.

"Uh, couldn't sleep. Thought I'd check on you." If he didn't know better, he'd say she looks hurt.

"Well, I'm fine."

"I can see that," she says, letting her words out tainted with poison.

Neither of them speak for a couple seconds, blocking each other's path.

Olivia clears her throat. "Coffee?" she asks gently, as if she thought she would scare him away.

He nods solemnly, "Sure."

They turn back into the elevator and ride down, silent.

They walk to the cafeteria, silent.

They order coffee without speaking to each other, and then taking one of the many vacant tables.

At this hour, she's surprised the coffee stand is still open.

He's just dropped his bag to the floor when she asks, "So where were you headed?"

He sighs. "Dunno," he replies. "Away. For a while."

She nods. "Were you planning on coming back?"

"Honestly? I have no idea."

She nods again, looking down at her hands. Her coffee's called at the counter, and she stands. Hands on the back of her now empty chair, she waits. She watches him.

Only when his drink's called, too, does she move, and only, he guesses, because he's stands, too. Like she was afraid he'd disappear while her back was turned.

They grab their warms cups and return to the table.

"Peter," she starts after a moment, at the exact time he says, "Olivia."

Their overlapping voices make her smile for a split-second, but it's gone before he has time to register.

"Don't go," she whispers, and for a second he thinks he's imagined it. "Get a hotel room or something, whatever, but don't leave Boston right away. Please," she adds, so it doesn't sound so much like an order.

"Why?" he demands softly.

"Just," she tries, cutting herself off. "Please," she repeats. "For me."

The last words are tacked on quickly, a Hail-Mary if she's ever heard one.

He says nothing for a long time, and it worries her.

"Please," and her voice cracks.

"Okay."

In the following days, she helps him find a cheap, easily overlooked motel to crash at. And after she drops off Ella and tells Walter something about some 'leads', she goes there.

After picking up some coffee on her way.

She knocks three times, drink carrier balanced in her other hand.

The door swings open and he doesn't smile. She doesn't, either.

She places the coffees on the table by the door and leaves hers, taking a seat in the arm-chair across the room.

She doesn't ask the question because she doesn't want the answer, but he gives it anyway.

"I was thinking Washington, maybe Oregon." He picks up his coffee and takes a sip, watching her.

She nods. Lately, she doesn't do much else. "You don't have to go. You could stay."

"No, I can't," he insists. But since the hospital, he's had his own doubts about skipping town. It should be second nature by now, being a nomad for the better—or worse?—half of his life. But Boston changed things. _She_ changed _him_.

"It wouldn't be the same without you," she says quietly, staring in front of her at nothing.

"I'm sure you'll manage," and takes another sip of his coffee.

She stares a second longer before her gaze snaps to him. Her eyes are almost unnoticeably bloodshot, and the skin below them is darker than usual. Evidence that she's not sleeping just as much as him.

He knows it'll just piss her off, but he goes for it anyway. "The bed's not half bad, if you want to steal an extra hour or two."

She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes; it's empty and a little frightening. "No, thanks. I could say the same for you."

"Heh," he laughs. "I would if I hadn't just lied about the quality of the mattress."

He's taking his third sip when she stands and approaches him. He takes a step back, allowing her better access to her own cup, but she doesn't reach for it.

She stands close, too close. Not in a bad way, but in a way that makes his thoughts blurry and his palms sweat, his heart race and his spine tingle.

He sets down his coffee cup.

Her hands shake imperceptibly as she reaches for him, letting the fingers of one hand run over the color of his long-sleeve cotton shirt and take hold and the others rest just over his heart.

His hands twitch, wanting to take her hips and pull her closer, but he waits.

"Stay," she both pleads and orders, leaning in so her breath is warm on his face. She whispers, "For me."

And then she kisses him.

It's so right, he feels it in his heart; it skips a beat when their lips touch and her fingers press against his firm chest in response.

She tastes of coffee she hasn't had yet and whiskey she has, one side of her bottom lip swollen and scar-tissued from biting at it.

One of his hands goes to the small of her back almost instinctively and she arches into him. His other goes to her hip, where he pushes up her shirt just enough to skim his thumb over the smooth skin there.

She gasps at the contact, and he takes the opportunity to push the kiss deeper.

She responds appropriately, moving her hand from his heart to his hair, tugging gently and scraping her nails softly down his neck, making him shiver. He moves his kisses from her lips to her cheek, down her jaw and neck, finding the spot above her collarbone where her pulse pounds, and swipes over it with his tongue.

Both her hands are in his hair, now, and she pulls him back up to her lips.

He kisses her softly, gently, over and over again. She pauses to catch her breath, resting her forehead against his.

Their eyes open together, catching the other's gaze immediately.

Peter takes a deep breath that comes out shaky. "I'll stay if you will," he whispers.

She purses her lips and nods against him, stepping them back in the direction of the bed.

He's gone when she awakes.

If she's honest, she expected it. If she's optimistic, she hoped she would wake naked in his arms.

Her eyes sting, and a tear rolls down and across her temple as she lays in the cold, itchy bed. She turns her face into the pillow to catch her tears.

When the tears have stopped on their own, she sits up in the bed. She glances around, stupidly hoping his stuff was still here, like he'd gone for more coffee or some food. But it's all gone, left the room with him.

She dresses slowly, picking up various articles of clothing from across the floor.

If she had been with anyone else, she would feel cheap, used, and she'd shower until she scrubbed her skin raw. But it's Peter, the only man she's ever felt complete with. Even in his absence, she can think back on her moments with him and feel safe, content, and loved.

When she's on her way out, she sees the note. It's propped up against her untouched, long-cold coffee, a piece of folded up paper from the motel stationary. Her name's printed on the outside in his fluid, up and down scrawl. She runs her hand over the word, and feels the pressure he'd used when writing it.

Finally, she opens it, bracing herself for the worst.

_I will be back. Promise._

_-Peter_

And because she's learned never to doubt him, she believes.

She stares at the note, running her fingers over his name.

Eventually, she folds it again and slides it in her pocket. She picks up her wasted coffee to find it's still warm, when she checks the cup it's different. He had gone out to get coffee, after all.

She picks up the room key he left behind and tucks it in the same pocket as the note, goes to her car and drives back to the lab.

She's walking into her apartment when she sees him, sitting at her little dining room table.

She takes a moment, stopping herself from reaching for her gun. She kicks the door shut behind her and just watches him.

He's beat up pretty badly, but if the body he'd left behind showed any indication she'd say he came out of it better than he could have. He stands slowly, favoring his right leg, and begins to limp to her. She runs to catch him, and lowers him back into his chair.

"What happened?" she asks, trying to sound less like the interrogator and more like the doting partner.

"He showed up in my hotel, Liv. _My father_. Newton tried to have me go back with him."

She doesn't speak, helping him out of his jacket. He winces, his left shoulder's looking a little off-kilter.

She grabs a clean dish cloth and runs it under the tap, using it to wipe the blood from below his nose and the cut across his temple.

"I was on my way back," he says, taking her wrist.

She lowers the hand holding the towel and brings the other up to his cheek, the rough stubble scratching her palm.

"I'm sorry."

She shakes her head. "It's okay."

"No, it's not. I left you there, and I hated myself every day for it. But it was all too much." He coughs, then smiles. "I thought about calling you, having you take some vacation and come out, but I figured you'd say no."

She smiles back. "I probably would've," she lies.

His smile wavers, then falls. "I'm sorry," he repeats.

She kisses him. "It doesn't matter anymore." She kisses him again. And again. "Because you kept your promise."

**(A/N: Okay, so the Peter-leaving-after-he-finds-out part of the story must not sit well with me because a lot of my stories are shaping up to be variations of it. If it's not obvious, this chapter is spread over 'The Man From The Other Side', 'Brown Betty', and 'Northwest Passage'. The body I'm talking about is Newton, and Walternate manages to escape. Or something. I just liked the idea that she caught him at the hospital, and then this kind of grew on its own.)**


	4. It Means Something

When Peter's eyes flutter open, Olivia lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. He struggles to focus for a moment, before his sleep-laden blue gaze pierces her.

He turns to Walter on his other side, and failingly attempts to smile.

"Son," Walter sighs.

Peter tries to smile again, with only slightly better avail. "Thank you," he whispers, his voice rough and scratchy. He glances from his father to Astrid and settles back on Olivia. "All of you."

She lets herself smile, not masking her relief. "Feelin' better?" she asks softly, a pleading underneath her words that she hopes he won't catch in his current state.

"Oliv—" he tries, but chokes on the word. He clears his throat and starts anew. "I'm sorry."

She shakes her head. "You weren't yourself," she insists, trying to make it stick in her own mind. She can't help but think back to the garage, where he attacked her. But other than the fear that he would hurt her, she feared more that the virus would take him then and there. And she feared the way her heart pounded and something low in her stomach stirred when he was pressing her against the car.

"It's lucky for me you _were_," he answers, and it's happening again.

Walter looks up, in that way he does when an idea occurs to him, and he quickly vacates the medical trailer.

Astrid watches, not lifting he eyes from the door as she tells them, "I'll go check on him."

She's gone moments later, and they're alone.

Peter stares dazedly after them. "He'll be okay," Olivia says, catching his attention.

He turns back to her. "Yeah," he sighs tiredly.

Olivia reaches forward, then hesitates. She prays he doesn't notice. She keeps on, taking his damp hand in hers. She takes a deep breath, keeping her body in control. "Get some rest," she orders gently.

He nods slowly, and watches her a second longer before his eyes slide shut.

It's only moments before his breathing's evened out. She observes him, still sickly-pale but definitely healing.

Her hand is still in his, and she gently peels his fingers from hers and places his hand at his side.

It's then she realizes. He almost _died_.

She leans forward in slow motion, so as not to wake him, before she presses her lips to the sweaty skin of his forehead. She lets them linger a second more before she pulls back, and uses the tips of her fingers to brush back some of his curls plastered to his temples.

She considers, for half a moment, to press her lips to his. He's unconscious, he wouldn't need to know. But she decides against it. It's unprofessional, it's risking someone come in and catch her in the act, and—most importantly—_it means something_.

Something she's not quite ready to acknowledge. She brushes her fingers over his hand one last time before leaving him.

When she's gone, he smiles.

**(A/N: 'What Lies Below'. Great episode. My take on what happens in that medical trailer thing after Walter and Astrid leave. They're alone in there! It makes my Polivia senses tingle. *Maniacal laugh*)**


	5. Only One He Wants

She doesn't wear make-up.

She never has, he now notices. And with as much time as he spends looking at her, he's caught off guard by how much it surprises him.

Not that she needs it. If anything, make-up might just be too much. It would make her beauty superficial, and he likes its naturalness. Not that she could ever _not_ be beautiful, but he's suddenly very glad she doesn't wear make-up every day.

So on the very, _very_ rare occasions that she does, it's because it's important. Formal, even.

It's something her and her alternate _didn't_ have in common. Something he should have noticed. The other Olivia did wear it to work, several times. And, at the time, he thought it was because of him, that she wore it for him.

Then again, he thought it _all_ was because of him. Every little difference that he overlooked or dismissed, he had selfishly and incorrectly attributed to their budding relationship. The easier smiles, the new patience with Walter, the decline—or, he supposes, disappearance—of her drinking.

And the make-up.

Now, all of what he attributes to _her_ makes him even happier that she didn't change for him. That even together, she's still _his_ Olivia, the one he fell in love with.

Even things out of her control are different. The hair, for example: _she_ had kept her bangs, and he had thought it out of convenience; while Olivia put effort in to hiding them, the evidence of her time Over There. When he thinks hard enough, _her_ blonde had been lighter, more artificial; Olivia had returned to her natural blonde, trying to erase the evidence of her unwilling double life.

And this he all notices that first morning after, after she'd forgiven him and they'd finally, _finally_ let everything else fall away and just _be_ together.

He manages to wake before her, and how he's not sure. Maybe that it's still practically the middle of the night, not even really morning yet. He would turn and glance at his clock, but he won't risk moving and waking her.

She sleeps peacefully, curled toward him in his arms. Her head resting against his chest, her soft hair flows over his shoulder and her neck.

Another thing that was different, her sleeping facing him. _She_ had almost always faced away, at least in the beginning. Only the last few nights they were together did she turn toward him in the night, and even then it was only slightly.

And _she_ slept. _Really_ slept through the night, not just the clumps of the wee hours after long nights of case files and glasses after glasses of whiskey.

Olivia breathes in sharply and he tenses. But, after a silent moment, her breathing evens again and he's sure she's still out.

As much as he wants to wake her, lay with her and watch the sunrise that's quickly approaching, he's not ready yet. This, what he's doing now, is only for him. He will not allow himself to think of _her_ ever again. This is his final moment to punish himself for his mistake. After this, when she does wake, he'll spend the rest of his life making up for what he's done. Because he doesn't deserve her. He never really did, and, especially now, he never will. But she's chosen him, and for that he will use every single moment trying to show her how much he loves her.

He _loves_ her. And he'll never let her doubt it again.

**(A/N: I've submitted into the group of writers of post-'6B' stuff. This kind of came out of nowhere, starting with me thinking about Olivia's allergy to make-up. Not that she needs it. And I remembered thinking I saw Faux wear it in an episode or two, so I went with it. Honestly, it's not how I would imagine this scene going but I needed a baseline. I'll probably write something better in the future, something anti-Fauxlivia. I didn't like her. But I like Altlivia. And there's a difference, I swear. I'm not crazy. Reviews are rewarded with more stories!)**


	6. In Her Mind

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" the young waitress asks, placing a cup of coffee on the glass table in front of Peter. She smiles at him, something that's more than just good customer service.

"No, that's fine. Thank you," he says politely.

She lingers at the table, leaning forward slightly. "Are you sure?" she keeps on, obviously pushing for…something.

"I'll actually take one of those, too," a voice says from behind her. The waitress turns to find Olivia, hand over her jacket on the back of the empty chair, having returned from the restroom.

"Oh, I—" the waitress stammers. "I'll go get that," and she scurries in the direction of the kitchen.

Olivia sits, smirking in triumph. "Making a friend?" she teases.

"Nah," he says, waving his hand dismissedly in front of him. "I've got plenty of friends."

"Ha," she laughs. "Sure."

Peter's smile drops and he reaches across the table, claiming Olivia's hand before she can move it away. Her wrist stiffens in response, but he doesn't release it. "You're really going to doubt me _now_, of all times?"

"What's so different about now?" she asks, confused.

"Well, I came here to get you, didn't I?" The smile slowly starts to return, his grip tightening tenderly on her hand.

"And where exactly is _here_, Peter?" She knows, but something about the way he'd said it made her uneasy.

He doesn't answer, and his expression falls blank. It's as if with a blink, he's different. He knows he's in her mind, but not how he's gotten there. He looks down at her hand in his, as if it comes as a surprise. He looks around, suddenly unfamiliar with their surroundings. "I don't know," he breathes out, looking more and more confused by the passing second.

The table begins to shake, his cup of coffee knocking against the glass. Olivia's other hand goes on top of his, as they both glance around the room, suddenly quaking. The eyes of all the other patrons are on them. Or, more specifically, him.

He turns back to Olivia, gripping both her hands in his. "Olivia, I remember now. You have to come back with me," he says seriously, raising his voice to be heard over the sounds of the café collapsing around them.

"Come back where?" she demands, trying to pull out of his grip so they can flee the store before being crushed under it.

She manages to pull him with her, out the door and into the street. People coming from every direction run at them, pulling at Peter and taking him away.

"You're dreaming!" he yells over the riotous crowd surrounding him. "This is all in your head! You need to come back to us!"

Olivia pushes at the mob of people but can't break through. She no longer hears Peter's words, but his screams of pain echo in her ears through the masses.

She pulls and she yanks but she can't seem to get any closer. Fighting, she finally yells "Stop!" and everyone freezes.

With them no longer attacking Peter, she rushes to him in the center of the group and helps him off the ground, where he's beaten and bloody and half-unconscious. She throws his arm over her shoulders and carries him away, all eyes still on them.

They walk a few feet farther away before she's setting him down on the curb as gently as she can. She places a hand on his unshaven cheek, the stubble patched with his red blood.

"Peter, are you really here?" she pleads, shaking his head slightly to get him to focus on her.

"Ugh," he moans, a free hand against the left side of his ribcage. "Yes." He thought to just go for it, hash it all out there on the sidewalk, "William Bell invaded you. When you crossed over two years ago, he slipped something he called 'Soul Magnets' in your tea." He shifted on the sidewalk.

Olivia glanced around, making sure they were free from any immediate danger. Everyone had dispersed, gone back to their routines as they had been before the riot.

"When Walter rang a bell that Bell had left to Nina Sharp, his consciousness took over your body. We told him he had forty-eight hours to find a new host or we were going to take him out without one."

"You mean, he would be gone? For good?"

"That was the idea. But when he couldn't just _leave_ anymore, I had to come in and get you. You were hiding from us, and we had to get you back."

There's a long pause. "So, all of this, it's been because of William Bell?" she asks quietly, eyes scanning the street in front of them.

"Well, it's _your_ mind. What did you think was happening?" he asks seriously, quickly gesturing around them with his unoccupied hand.

"I don't know. I thought it was a normal, everyday dream. I thought I was at home, in bed. Where's William Bell, then?" She's looking around, as if expecting him to walk up to them any moment.

"I already got him out. They were trying to upload him into a computer." He sounds skeptical, and Olivia understands why.

"So, it's just you?"

He nods, grimacing at the throbbing in his temples.

She mirrors the movement, minus the grimace. She braces herself and slips his arm back over her shoulders, her arm around his torso. "Up you go," she mumbles, pulling them from the sidewalk. "Let's go get you cleaned up."

They start walking, but Peter drags back. "'Livia," he sighs. "Let's go back. Let's go home. These injuries aren't real. The second we wake up, they'll be gone."

"But I want to show you something," she counters. "I've had time to explore, and there is something I found."

They'd ended up back at her apartment, which in her head was only a block away. She'd gone to retrieve her handy first aid kit while he showered.

Even in a dream, a warm shower felt amazing; his wounds slowly being cleansed of the drying blood and his sore muscles unwinding under the pressure of the water.

He was just about to shut off the water when the door opened to the bathroom, and closed shortly after. "Olivia?" he called, hoping that no more of her subconscious had come to beat him, again.

"Yeah," she'd replied quietly, barely heard under the sound of the shower even in the same room. He could hear her shuffling around in the small space.

"Well, I'm just finishing up," he told her, but was interrupted by the curtain pulling open enough for her to climb in with him.

She wasn't naked, but she was close. And even though they had seen each other naked before, her amount of clothing made him slightly insecure. He turned away almost instinctively, whether it was to hide himself or avert his eyes he didn't know.

But she'd just replied with a wry, "Nothing we haven't seen before, Peter," and turned him around again. She had brought with her a small washcloth, which she soaked in the spray and began to finish cleaning his wounds with.

He stayed quiet and fairly still while she tended to him, and by the time she finished half of the cloth was colored with his blood. She dropped it at their feet, no longer needed, and the water ran red from it to the drain. Her hand reached forward and he'd struggled not to flinch away. The soft pads of her cool fingertips ran along a particularly nasty bruise on his left side, where he'd held his ribs earlier in the street.

"I'm sorry," she whispered so softly he almost hadn't heard it, if he hadn't had his eyes trained on her face he would have missed the words slipping from between her lips.

"Not your fault," he insisted, but her fingers moved to his face and she ran her thumb across his bottom lip, cut but not swollen.

"My mind attacked you." She was blaming herself when it was a completely natural response, something anyone would have done to anyone else.

"It happens," he said with a smirk.

And then she's moving closer to him, hands feather-light on his neck and her lips pressing against his, asking him to just accept her apology. His hands are suddenly on her hips, pulling her closer yet, and she's forgotten that he's been without her for days while to her it just seemed like a few hours.

She reciprocates his strengthening hold, one hand curling into the hair above the nape of his neck and the other in a fist against his chest. Suddenly, the minimal fabric covering her seems in the way. Her hand leaves his chest to wrap around his wrist, raising his hand to the clasp of her bra at her back. He makes quick work of removing it, and then his hand moves back to her hip, pushing at the hem of her underwear.

After freeing her of the inconvenient articles, forgotten on the floor below with the washcloth, Peter kicks them toward the drain and steps Olivia back towards the wall, mouth on her neck. "I missed you," he whispers, lips against her skin.

They move together, his injuries seemingly unnoticed anymore as their breathy moans and whispered names echo through the bathroom. The spray of water beats down on his back, coloring it a darker shade of red from the rest of him.

The ebbing of their bodies slows and eventually stops, Peter still lacing kisses up and down her neck and over her bare shoulder. "Was that what you wanted to show me?" he asks against her clavicle, and she pants out a heavy laugh.

"No," she admits breathlessly, "But it was certainly worth the time." She feels his smirk in his kisses, but finds his face with her hands and brings him back up. She presses their lips together for a long moment before continuing, "Better get out before the water runs cold."

He sighs but nods, and turns to shut off the water. She slips out first, wrapping a towel around her torso and kicking aside her discarded clothes with a damp foot. He follows out soon after, a towel around his waist and a slower shuffle out in to the bedroom.

"Wait," he says as she stops in front of the closet. "This is all in your head, right? So couldn't we just walk around naked?"

The joke isn't very funny but she forces a laugh anyway, a curt "No," coming not long after.

They dress each other, because in Olivia's mind they both keep full wardrobes in her apartment. She picks him out a shirt with a band name she doesn't recognize but a design she likes, and a pair of well-fitting, dark blue jeans. He first picks out a dress that she quickly vetoes, but then settles on a bright blue tank with a thin sweater and also a pair of jeans, but with a lighter wash on the denim.

"So, what is this mysterious thing you want to show me?" Peter asks impatiently from his seat on the bed as she's pulling on her jeans.

"You'll see," is all she'll say, even when he asks four more times.

They leave the apartment and start back down the street in the direction they came from, Peter moving slower because of his injuries but still managing a mostly normal pace.

They pass the café, completely restored from its earth-shaking state, and continue walking for several blocks. Peter asks once if she's lost but she quickly snaps that it's her mind and she knows just fine where she's going. It's partially true, at least. She doesn't know how long it'll take to get to their destination; she just knows it'll pop up eventually in their path.

And it does, after almost twenty blocks. She's surprised he hasn't complained about the pain, but she'd slipped her arm around his waist to take some of the weight not long after they started walking. But now, as it appears in front of them, Olivia steps from Peter and scans the sight in front of her.

It's a field. Not just any field, but a field of white tulips.

She looks back over her shoulder at Peter, and his gaze is settled hard on the open space before them. She reads him, and knows he recognizes it; he just doesn't know _how_. "I found it somewhere in the back of my mind. I can't believe I'd ever forgotten it." She holds her hand back out to him, asking him closer.

He hobbles forward and laces their fingers together, watching.

A little girl appears in the field, sitting on the ground. She's crying, just barely a whisper over the wind. It's snowing where they stand, but not anywhere near cold enough to do so. Peter holds his hand in front of him, flat to catch some of the fluttering white. It melts in his hand, and crushes between his fingers. The snow doesn't touch the field.

"Watch," Olivia whispers, leaning toward him but still watching.

Not too long after, a boy appears at the edge of the field. He approaches the girl slowly, cautiously. "Hi."

She jumps, startled. "Hi."

And then it sinks in. The boy is Peter, the girl is Olivia. They look about seven years old. And this is the first time they'd met, in Jacksonville all those years ago.

"How did you find me?" he hears her voice both from the field and from beside him, both whispers but for different reasons.

The boy reaches into his pocket and retrieves a folded slip of paper, which opens to reveal a drawing of the field in which they inhabit. "I guess tulips don't usually grow around here," he says, and finds his lips matching each word.

"But…how'd you know I'd come here?" she replies, and he knows the woman beside him is doing the same.

"Because it was the only drawing that looked happy."

She nods, looking away from him.

"My name's Peter," he says.

"Mine's Olivia," she tells him. He walks towards her, "Don't." He stops, confused. "Be careful."

The flowers around her have died, smoking lightly. "I'm not scared." He sits a few feet away from her, on the ground. Then he notices the bruise just around her right eye. "What happened?"

"My step-dad did it," the girl admits, and the Peter on the outside of the field feels a red hot rage build in his chest. Only then does he realize that the boy feels some semblance of it, too.

"So," the boy starts, "everyone's looking for you."

"I messed up," she says, her voice breaking, "and now he's gonna send me home."

"Who?"

"Dr. Walter."

Young Peter looks away a moment, then back at her. "Did you tell him? Walter, I mean, about your step-dad hitting you?"

"I don't think he'd do anything."

Peter looks at Olivia, standing beside him, hand in his. She can feel his stare and meets it. There's a tear welling in the corner of her eye, but it doesn't fall. He wipes it away anyway, with the pad of his thumb, and she smiles appreciatively.

"My mom—" they hear, and turn back. It's Peter speaking. Even as a boy, he has to look away and think about his words. He swallows, and it reminds Olivia so much of him _now_. "My mom was telling me you gotta imagine how you want things to be. And then you can try and change them."

Young Olivia looks down, weighing his words in her head. "Do you trust him?" she asks, looking back up at him. "Walter?"

"You should tell him," he says, somehow answering and not at the same time. "You gotta try something, right?"

She nods, but it's almost imperceptible. She raises her hand to her lap, examining it. She begins to hold it out, "I think I cooled off by now."

He reaches out, too, for her hand. They smile, and Peter squeezes Olivia's hand; both of them.

And then suddenly, like an invisible wall has fallen between the two sets of Peters and Olivias, the snow moves with the wind into the field.

"Did you imagine that?" Peter asks, and Olivia smiles.

The pair fades away, still linked together. Only then does Olivia step forward, hand back with Peter until he moves to catch up. They walk out to where their younger selves had been sitting, the tulips still mangled where the girl had burned them. Olivia releases his hand and settles herself into the spot, crossing her legs against the cold ground.

Peter kneels a few feet away from her, and they look out across the field.

"_Did_ you imagine that?" Peter repeats, breaking the silence.

"I did," Olivia says with a nod, and reaches for him. "Even then you were still looking out for me."

He takes her hand, though he needn't reach as far with his elongated arms. "Even then you were stealing my heart," he teases back, but Olivia can tell that the words beneath the tone are true.

"_Did_ you trust Walter?" she asks.

"No," he replies simply. "But I hoped he would do what was right for you, even if he hadn't for me. Or, at least, that's what I thought."

"Do you think differently now?"

He turns to her. "Well, he brought me to you, didn't he?"

She nods again, and stands. He follows her up, and steps forward. She slides her arms around his neck and his hands move in to their places at her hips. "Let's go home," she whispers, and leans in to join their lips. The kiss is simple, innocent, a promise that they'll always be there for each other, even when they won't.

And then, in the lab, they open their eyes.

**(A/N: 'LSD' AU-FIC! ****Okay, this was inspired by me watching Inception. Again. God, I love that movie. And, of course, 'Subject 13'. Reviews very welcome.)**


	7. Moments

It's the little moments she loves.

He brings her a coffee after a long night (or before a long day). He'll interrupt her endless scanning of files to take her hand, forcing her to look up from the miles of print and relax her eyes. The way he rubs constant circles in her back while they sit on the couch (even when it turns her skin red). The way he'll whisper "I love you" with no provocation, just to make sure she doesn't forget (she never will, not again).

And it's not a special occasion, but one night after they've wrapped a particularly nasty case he takes her hand and, wordlessly, leads her out of the lab and out into the dark courtyard of the Harvard campus. It's a chilly night, and after they weave their fingers together he pulls her hand with his into his jacket pocket. It keeps their fingers from freezing and forces her to walk a little closer (which they both see as a pro, rather than a con).

They walk, with no destination. After several circles of the campus, Olivia tugs him in the direction of a bench.

The painted wood is ice against the back of their legs, but they don't care. (Her hand is still in his pocket and she scoots closer, until their hands are smashed between their thighs.) Neither has spoken yet, and neither is eager to (words aren't necessary with them, their exchanged glances and gentle touches are enough).

She's tired, more so than usual. She leans in his direction, letting her head fall against the firm curve of his shoulder. He turns to place a tender kiss in her hair (which is pulled tight into her classic ponytail and drapes down her back).

A young couple passes, giggling and swaying with drunkenness. They remain oblivious to Peter and Olivia (sitting still on the bench), as the man plants a messy kiss on his companion. She responds quickly, returning the kiss and her fingers winding into his hair.

They remind Olivia of her and Peter (though the students are more intoxicated than they ever have been together), the way they seem endlessly in contact with each other. The couple breaks apart slowly and moves on, walking a little faster than they were before.

Peter's shoulder vibrates under her temple, his soft laughter finding her ears moments later. It makes her smile, the corner of her lips tug up on one side.

It's then that she notices his thumb stroking hers in light, parallel lines. They've been sitting on the bench for nearly ten minutes, but she only feels the cold on her face, no doubt making her cheeks and nose a rosy shade of red. She can't see his face, but she pictures it on Peter. It makes her want to quickly press her lips to the tip of his nose, feel the mix of warm blood and cold skin under the blush.

They keep sitting (his thumb still back and forth on hers), until the inherent buildup of the cold makes her shiver involuntarily. With the physical conformation of them being outside too long, Peter squeezes her hand gently and she lifts her head from him. He stands first and she stays planted on the bench, trying to keep the peacefulness of the moment a little longer.

"Come on," he whispers, the first time either of them have spoken since the lab.

She shakes her head stubbornly, and it reminds him of Ella (sometimes he thinks the girl looks more like her aunt than her mother).

He uses the leverage of her hand in his jacket to pull her up towards him and she hesitantly stands, falling into him slightly. The sudden and clumsy contact catches them both off guard, her tiredness affecting her balance more than she usually lets it. But she quickly steps in the direction they came, eager for him to lose the thought.

He pretends he's brushed it off, but they both know better. The walk back toward the lab, but just outside of the building's doors he stops. She's tugged back from her stride and into his arms (suddenly released from his hand only to be captured again).

His hands (one is warmer than the other from her hand in it) slide up to her flush cheeks, and hers work inside his jacket to take the back of his sweater beneath into her fists. He leans in as if to kiss her, but their lips stop just before meeting.

Their breaths mingle between them, just barely visible in the night air. Their noses brush together (both red and warm), and Olivia closes her eyes. She doesn't know if he closes his, but she thinks not because she feels his stare on her.

They stand, at the just-before of the kiss. Olivia makes the distance smaller but doesn't close it, resting her forehead against his, her faculties struggling to stay alert with her exhaustion. The intimacy of the moment is too much; she feels parts her mind shutting down while others couldn't be more awake.

(She decides then and there that she needs to taste him, with almost no forethought). "I love you," she whispers, her lip grazing his as she speaks. And then it's almost impossible to keep them apart, her lips instantly magnetized to his and unwavering in their attack. His hand slides from her cheek to the nape of her neck, tilting her farther into him and his fingers tangling in her hair. Her hands fist the soft fabric even tighter, her nails digging in to his sides deliciously.

His tongue is on her lower lip, asking her. She parts her mouth for him, and his other hand travels from her neck to her back to her waist. Their clothes are really the only thing between them (and they're feeling more and more like a brick wall with every passing second).

His hand moves a little lower and slips under the hem her shirt, the chill fresh and tingling on his fingers and the sensitive skin of her lower back. She gasps into him.

His lips lift from hers then, and she leans as if to follow them. He sighs and his breath is warm on her face. "We should go inside, say goodbye to Walter," he whispers (but he doesn't sound like he wants to).

She pauses a moment (eyes opening), considering saying no and just dragging him straight back to her apartment and into her bed, but nods against his forehead.

They manage to pull apart, tugging clothes back into their proper places, and open the door to the building. There's a heat that would be unnoticeable in any other weather, but it welcomes them inside (and makes the pink-red flush of their faces even brighter). Their hands find their way together again, between them instead of inside his jacket. They descend the stairs slowly, together.

In the lab, Walter's still stirring his mystery concoction in the tall, metal pot. He lifts the wooden spoon to reveal the substance, sticky and green (and dripping back into the pot too slowly to just be liquid). He giggles approvingly, then looks up to catch Olivia and Peter entering.

"Olivia? Peter? What are you doing here?" he asks, genuinely confused. "I thought you two had gone for the night."

"No, just a walk," she says quietly, cheeks flushed (the cold's long gone, the blood rushing to her face for another reason).

"Oh. Well, Astro's already left. And that nervous fellow, Jackson," he informs them dissmissedly, turning back to his project.

"Lincoln," Peter corrects him.

Olivia leans in to him slightly. "I'm going to go grab some files," she says, and then walks off to her office.

Peter steps toward Walter (lifting on his toes to get a look at the contents of the pot). "I know I'll probably regret asking this, but what's cookin'?"

"No idea," Walter says, amused. "Just mixing things together."

Peter's eyebrows rise up (in a sort of skepticism). "Well, if we head out, you're not going to blow up the lab, are you?"

"Not intentionally, no," Walter teases, unable to restrain his smile. "You and Agent Dunham have a good night."

Peter smirks at him, and lifts a hand to pat his forearm. "Goodnight, Walter."

"Goodnight, son," he calls as Peter walks towards the door.

Olivia catches up with him (files under her arm), and calls back her own, "Goodnight," to Walter before they're out the door.

They walk back in the same path to the doors to outside and then in the opposite direction towards the parking lot.

Peter jogs ahead of her to get to the driver's side first and she stops. "Really?" she asks.

"You're tired. I'll not have you crashing us into anything on the way to your apartment," he states.

(She stands a moment, but her brain's too sluggish to come up with a rebuttal.) She sighs, defeated, and tosses him the keys. He almost has to dive to catch them, and she smiles despite herself.

"Funny," he says, once they're in the car. He cranks the heat and pulls out of the empty parking lot.

Olivia tries to sit back in her seat, but the jazz music Peter's tuned the radio to is almost a lullaby, dragging sleep to the front of her mind. (She doesn't want the night to be over just yet, that non-kiss before the kiss stirring something deep in her stomach.)

She flips open a case file, straining her eyes to read (both in the dark and without her glasses). It keeps her some semblance of awake, but when Peter catches her (squinting and leaning too far forward) he reaches over and snatches the files from her lap, tossing them into the backseat unceremoniously.

"What was that for?" she asks (silently thankful to have something else to focus on, her eyes aching).

"You'll ruin your eyes. And give yourself a headache." He turns back to the road (tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the new song).

She huffs, but says nothing, crossing her arms across her jacket-clad chest. (She manages to just barely stay awake for the rest of the drive.)

When he pulls up in front of her building, she's out of the car first and already starting up the front steps. He follows, jogging to catch up.

At her door, she slides the key in the lock and turns the doorknob (pushing the slab of wood a little harder than she would have liked). He kicks the door closed behind him and locks it over again (a habit he'd carried with him over a timeline).

And then she's on him, the previous sleepiness only there if he looks for it (and based on the pressure of her kiss he opts not to). Her hands tangle in his hair, and he thinks of the couple in the courtyard. His hands respond on their own, on her hips (their positions swapped from the last kiss). Her hands move down to his shoulders and push his jacket roughly, though it hangs on his arms when he doesn't let go of her immediately.

Eventually he lets it fall to the ground, taking the chance to use his free hands to remove her own jacket (and her button-down work shirt). Her hands pull up the back hem of his sweater and undershirt, skimming her hands over his bare back (and relishing it when he shivers under her fingers).

He lets her pull the layers off, breaking the kiss. But she's right back to him, pressing their (mostly) bare chests together. Neither of them seem to know where they are anymore, and they bump into the couch (Olivia letting out a small squeak of surprise that makes Peter smirk into her lips). He takes the chance and lifts her on to the back of it, her legs wrapping around his torso. He lifts her hands to take hold of his neck and then reaches behind him, pulling off her shoes and tossing them down blindly (her socks, too).

(When his hands are back on her hips) she reaches down and starts to undo his belt. She gets it undone and pulls it out of the loops to toss it back behind her, but he pulls her against him before she can return to his pants. She moans softly at the sudden contact (and she pushes back, eager to play his game).

His response is to pull her tighter, lifting her from the couch and onto his waist fully. He moves in the direction of her bedroom (and they're colliding through their remaining clothes with every slight movement).

He sets her down, but she works fast, flipping them so he's on his back and she's straddling him (smiling at her advantage).

He kicks of his own shoes (and socks, with some work) while she starts back on his pants again. She gets them undone but leaves them (she couldn't get them off with him under her anyway), and starts on her own. Her hands are captured by his, and he brings her hands to his neck again.

Now he flips them so he's back on top of her, and her hands tangle into his hair. His lips move from hers to her jaw and then her neck (the spot just below her ear that makes her whisper his name) before her shoulder, where he uses his teeth to pull the strap of her bra down over the curve of her upper arm. Trailing kisses across her chest, he moves to the other side and does the same.

She's getting impatient and pushes her hips upwards, crashing into his in a way that makes them both make a noise (somewhere between a gasp and a moan and the other's name).

He quickly obeys her silent order and gets to work on her pants, pushing them off her hips so she can kick them to the floor below him (before her legs come back up around his waist). She uses the heels of her feet to try and push the back of his pants down, but he ends up having better luck on his own.

Left only in their underwear, she rolls them in a different direction to get them both on the bed (their feet end up by the pillows by they don't care), and she manages to get on top of him again.

She hovers over him a moment, and even in the darkness of the room he can see (in her eyes) that she needs sleep. Her ponytail is messy and pulled off to the side, so he reaches up and releases her golden waves of hair (which falls over them like a curtain and blocks out the minimal light).

"Maybe…" he starts, but she just shakes her head.

"We can sleep in tomorrow," she insists, and he'll hold her to it if there isn't a case (he begs whatever force is listening that there isn't, just this once).

Before he can say anything else, though, her lips are pressing to his. Not with the same urgency as before, but equally filled with fire. Her body relaxes on his, as if she's just resting there, and her hands go tenderly to his cheeks (raking her nails softly across his stubble).

His hands go to her calves, which are parallel to his thighs, and he runs his fingers up and down the tense muscles coiled there.

"I love you," she whispers (for the second time that night) against his lips, and he gathers her in his arms.

He holds her as close as possible, her cheek pressed over where his heart beats in his chest. "I love you," he responds ("More than you'll ever know.")

It's the little moments she loves, when she can't help but feel like the whole world was made for just them, that no matter how many apocalypses they face they will make it to the end of the day, holding each other close and stealing words between kisses.

**(A/N: So, this was a season 4 fluff thing that I came up with out of nowhere. FYI, I did the parentheses on purpose. Just in case you thought I was just a really bad organizer or something. I suppose in the timeline of the show—wait, replace that with storyline—it would be post-'Short Story About Love' and pre-'Worlds Apart'. You know, Peter and Olivia are together but Lincoln's still around. Reviews?)**


	8. Be Brave

The last time Olivia sees her daughter before the amber, she doesn't cry.

It takes less effort than she expected.

They sit in the back of a van. Olivia doesn't know the man in the driver's seat, or the woman in the passenger's. They're dressed in all-white jumpsuits.

The van, though, is pitch black; inside and out.

Olivia cannot see, only feel. She feels her daughter's head in her lap, she feels Peter's hand around hers, she feels the ache of what they're about to do and the guilt that comes with it.

"Mommy, where are we going?" he daughter asks, her little voice quiet and tired.

"I don't know, baby girl. I don't know," she whispers, stroking her hair. "Sleep, and I'll wake you when we get there."

She feels Etta nod against her thigh, and then turn into her stomach.

Peter's hand squeezes.

They don't speak for the rest of the ride.

When the van finally stops, the voice from the driver is brusque and quick. "We've arrived."

Olivia looks down even though she cannot see. "Come on, baby," she says, shaking Etta's shoulder. "Wake up."

Her little girl inhales sharply as she wakes, and Olivia can almost feel her disorientation.

The door of the van slides open, and fluorescent lights temporarily blind them. When she focuses, Olivia can make out one familiar face among the crowd: Nina Sharp.

Peter climbs out first, then opens his arms to receive Etta. Olivia gently turns her in his direction and she goes to his arms willingly. Her little head burrows into his neck, hiding from the light. Olivia hears her yawn.

Olivia stumbles out of the van and is at Peter's side as fast as she can.

Nina steps forward, black and red in the throng of whitesuits before them. "It's time," she says, and the words sound like they hurt to say.

Peter's hand runs through Etta's blonde hair. "Sweetheart, can you go with Nina for me?"

Etta shakes her head against his chest and Olivia fails to restrain a sob.

Peter looks over their daughter's head at Olivia. And while his eyes are filled with just as much pain, they also tell her to be brave. Just for a little while. For her.

Olivia nods and takes a deep breath, and puts her hand on Etta's back. "Baby, you need to go with Nina for a little while, okay?"

"Why can't I stay with you and Daddy?" she asks, turning to look at her mother.

And even though her blue eyes peeking from Peter's shoulder are watery and confused, Olivia knows she must press on.

"She's gonna take care of you for a little while, while Mommy and Daddy are working," she lies. It's a situation that they've been in before, and Peter always says a lie closer to the truth is easier to believe.

She had hoped she would never have to lie to her daughter.

Etta stares, trying to read her, and nods.

Peter sets her down on the ground, and she seems smaller. He presses a kiss into her hair, and Etta kisses his stubbly cheek. He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes all the way.

Then she heads to Olivia with open arms. She wraps herself around Olivia's neck and presses a kiss to her cheek. "Love you, Mommy."

Olivia pulls Etta just enough so she can see her face. She trails a finger down her cheek, and presses a kiss to the tip of her nose. "Love you, too, baby."

Etta watches Olivia for a second longer, and Olivia has to check herself if she's started crying and not realized. She hasn't. Etta hugs her mother a second longer before running back to her father and whispering something in his ear.

Then, without being asked, she turns and walks to Nina's outstretched hand. She takes it automatically, and Nina looks back to Olivia and Peter.

"She will be safe," is all she says.

Peter steps forward. He hands Nina a small box that he pulls from his jacket pocket. "For her, when she's ready."

Nina nods, and Olivia also steps toward her. She places a hand on her arm and says, "Thank you for everything."

Nina gives her a smile that lets her know what she means.

Olivia takes her step back, and takes Peter's hand.

Nina leads Etta to a town car, buckles her in and gets in the passenger seat. She nods to them again before her door closes and the car drives away.

They stand still for a minute. When the car is no longer seen or heard, Olivia drops Peter's hand and sinks to her knees.

"She's gone," she whispers.

Peter joins her on the floor. "It's what's best for her. She'll be safe. She'll get to live her life." His words are sincere but she can hear his doubt, too.

"Is it selfish to want to call this whole thing off?" she pleads, hands tugging at his chest and tears falling freely.

Peter sighs, and it's shaky. His eyes are watery, too, and it reminds her of Etta. "We're her parents, Liv. It's not selfish to want our child."

"It is if it puts her in danger," she says, dropping her hands to her lap.

Peter reaches for her, places his hand on her neck. His wedding band is cold on her skin. He shakes his head but doesn't speak.

"It's my fault. I'm the reason we couldn't give her a normal, safe life."

"Liv…"

"No, Peter. Our child is in danger because of me. You should've gone with her, given her a parent to raise her."

Peter pulls her into his arms, and she fights. She pushes on his chest but he doesn't give. "It's my fault," she sobs. She keeps fighting until she's not, until she's clawing his back and burrowing into his neck where it smells of their daughter. "It's my fault," she cries, whispers, over and over again in his arms.

"No, it's not." He says it only once. "This is because of them. And if we fight them we can get her back." After that, she stops. She crumples into him further.

Eventually, they stand. They climb back in the van they arrived in, and it starts to move the second the door closes behind them.

Peter keeps an arm over her shoulders and presses his lips in her hair. She plays absentmindedly with the hem of his shirt while she waits for the tears to stop.

"What did she say to you?" she asks when her eyes start to feel heavy.

Peter sighs, presses another kiss into her hair, then one to her temple. "She told me to tell you she would be brave for us."

And just like that, the tears start again and she buries her face in his shirt. She pretends not to feel the tears that land in her hair.

They must be brave for their daughter. They must be brave for her, and she will be brave for them. She is _theirs_, after all.

**(A/N: Polivetta ficlet. One of thousands. This is just one version I have running around in my head, maybe later I'll post more…)**


	9. Morning Sickness

The nausea rolls. Back and forth. Back and forth. It pushes her like the waves while she treads in the wide ocean. A too-large wave will swallow her and spit her back out, and she barely makes it to the bathroom.

Curled over the cool, white bowl of the toilet she is powerless to stop the flow of vomit out her mouth; her nose burning, her back arched painfully, and her stomach feeling an echoing sense of emptiness. Seconds later, between heaves of putrescence, his hand is on her back making calming, rhythmic circles across her spine.

He doesn't speak, she doesn't try. She knows they should both be in bed, but her expulsions are unstoppable and he's too stubborn and caring. The term 'morning sickness', in her case, is just a cruel joke. The darkness of both the bedroom behind them and the sky outside their window taunts her, this time of day only ever called 'morning' if it's tacked on at the end of 'three in the'.

This is the worst part of pregnancy. Other women complain about losing their figures, or losing sleep, or even the weird cravings; Olivia just wants to be in control of her stomach for more than a few hours at a time.

And, as always, she glances back at the clock on the wall and it is 3:01. On the damn dot. And, as always, she will be huddled over her toilet for exactly seven minutes. At 3:08, she'll stand and grab her toothbrush from the designated cup while Peter wanders dazedly back towards the bed. She'll brush for two minutes, and at 3:10 she'll climb back under their heavy comforter and Peter will unconsciously wrap his arm around her waist.

And even though the pressure feels a little much on her tender digestive system, she lets him. The feeling fades when her eyes eventually slide shut on their own.

The first time that she's able to sleep through the night is just a precursor to what happens the next day.

* * *

She wakes, finding the sun bright in her sleep-laden eyes. Peter stirs next to her, but turns his face into his pillow. "Did you turn on the bedroom light on accident?" he mumbles from inside the fabric.

"No," she groans, hand blocking out the rays. "It's morning."

It's then he sits up, suddenly immune to the violation of light. "_Morning_? Like, get-up-get-dressed-make-toast morning and not middle-of-the-goddamn-night?"

"Yeah," she breathes, dropping her hand. She blinks a few times, and then she's adjusted.

"Did I miss your nightly trip to the bowl?"

She smiles shyly, "Not unless I did, too."

He thinks about it, then beams back at her. "I believe a celebratory breakfast is in order."

"I agree." She curls in his direction, still mostly under the covers. "You start on that and I'll keep the bed warm."

He laughs, standing. "I will let you get away with that on one condition."

"And what's that?"

He leans over the bed lets his face hover over hers. "Kiss me."

She bites her lip and hesitates, pretending to think about it. Her hand reaches out and she trails her nails across his extra-rough morning stubble. "I suppose," she whispers, before tilting her head forward and pressing her lips to his.

If she had counted, the kiss would've lasted longer than the conversation preceding it. But to her and her hormones, it was fleeting and over too quickly.

She watched longingly as he shuffled out of the bedroom, only in his boxers until he pulled a shirt from the top drawer of the dresser.

She pushed herself down farther into the cocoon of blankets, sliding her hands beneath the sheer fabric of her sleep-shirt pulled tight around her rounding belly. She drew circles around her navel with a pointer finger, and hummed a tune that had context but no words.

When she felt it the first time, she'd dismissed it as a hunger pang. The second time, only moments after the first, made her sit up erect in the bed, the comforter sliding from its place under her chin to pooling in her lap and exposing her hands and stomach. The third time, significantly later than the second, and she called out for Peter. Loudly.

He comes sliding in, looking from her face to her hands. "What? What's wrong?" he asks urgently.

"I think the baby kicked."

He takes a step towards the bed, then another, and then ambles the rest of his way to perch himself at her feet, spatula still clutched in his hand. His mouth opens as if to speak, but nothing comes out.

She seems amused by his speechlessness, chuckling to herself as she wraps her long, slender fingers around his empty hand and places his hand just to the right of her navel.

Nothing happens.

Though his face appears unphased after a minute of no response, his eyes reveal a thin layer of disappointment beneath the initial excitement and anticipation.

"Wait," she says. He does.

Still nothing.

Now his brow furrows. She places her hand over his atop her stomach, and starts to hum. Her version of his tune is choppy and a little too quick, but still recognizable and beautiful. He smiles just because she remembers and then he feels it, a tap against the palm of his hand.

He looks to her for conformation and she nods gently. She continues humming and the tapping follows, slow and gentle.

The tune ends and it stops, but he doesn't remove his hand. "Oh my god," he whispers. "Olivia, that's our baby."

"Mmhmm," she agrees proudly. "That's our little girl."

He smiles and leans in to kiss her forehead. She catches his cheeks in her hands before he can and pulls him down on her lips. "You better not burn my breakfast," she whispers.

**(A/N: So after writing this I discovered it had many similarities to something else I've written but was still editing because I didn't like the ending. I've decided to scrap it for now and stick with this one. Maybe, possibly, I will revisit it in the future and tweak it to the acceptable level for publishing. Until then, you can enjoy this one. Reviews!)**


	10. Oh, The Places You'll Go!

"Can I have a story, Mommy?" Henrietta asked, peeking her eyes out from under the blankets.

Olivia stopped and spun slowly in her doorway. "One," she told her sternly but with a smile, "Then bed."

"'Kay."

Olivia walked back to her daughter's bed and sat on the edge until the small child clambered into her lap and she shifter further in. "Which one?"

Etta peered over at the pile of books beside her bed. "Um…" she pushed a few from the top of the stack until she saw one she wanted. "This one!" she cried.

The book was white with a few stripes of color and a small person in the lower corner; the title scrawled across the cover in large print.

Olivia flipped a couple pages until she found the beginning. She took a deep but quiet breath.

"_Congratulations! Today is your day! You're off to Great Places! You're off and away!_"

"_You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes,_" Peter's voice echoed from the doorway, where he was propped up against the jamb. "_You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. You're on your own. And you know what you know. And _you_ are they guy who'll decide where to go._" He was grinning and Olivia's heart fluttered.

Etta patted the bed next to her for him to come sit, and he propped himself up on an arm at the end of the small mattress.

Olivia continued, "_You'll look up and down streets. Look 'em over with care. About some you will say, 'I don't choose to go there.' With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet, you're too smart to go down any not-so-good street_."

"_And you may not find any you'll want to go down. In that case, of course, you'll head straight out of town_," Peter added. His smile was still there but didn't quite reach his eyes.

She kept his gaze as she spoke, "_It's opener there in the wide open air._"

"_Out there things happen and frequently do_," he paused, letting the smile fall incrementally before coming back full force, "_to people as brainy and footsy as you._" He tickled Etta's feet beneath her blankets and she giggled and squirmed.

Olivia watched before turning back to the book. "_And when things start to happen, don't worry. Don't stew. Just go right along. _You'll_ start happening too_."

She had only to turn the page before Etta threw up her little arms and yelled, "_OH! THE PLACES YOU'LL GO!_"

Peter laughed quietly at their daughter and Olivia smiled. "_You'll be on your way up! You'll be seeing great sights! You'll join the high fliers who soar to great heights_." She paused, waiting for Peter to pick it up, but he nods at her to continue. "_You won't lag behind, because you'll have the speed. You'll pass the whole gang and you'll soon take the lead. Wherever you fly, you'll be best of the best. Wherever you go, you will top all the rest_."

She turned and placed a kiss in her daughter's hair as Peter whispered the words on the next page: "_Except when you _don't_. Because, sometimes, you_ won't."

"_I'm sorry to say so but, sadly, it's true_," Olivia continued, "_that Bang-ups and Hang-ups _can_ happen to you. You can get all hung up in a prickle-ly perch,_" she poked at Etta's sides, earning a ringing laugh. "_And your gang will fly on. You'll be left in a Lurch._"

Peter was obviously thinking on something else, so she read on. "_You'll come down from the Lurch with an unpleasant bump,_" she bounced Etta in her lap, "_And chances are, then, that you'll be in a Slump. And when you're in a Slump, you're not in for much fun. Un-Slumping yourself is not easily done._"

Peter finally spoke, before she could flip the page. "_You will come to a place where the streets are not marked. Some windows are lighted. But mostly they're darked. A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin. Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?_" He paused, swallowing hard. "_How much can you lose? How much can you win?_"

Olivia didn't think of stopping him, but it was sounding less and less like a children's story anymore. Etta didn't seem to mind, engrossed in her father's words. "_And _if_ you go in, should you turn left or right? Or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite? Or go around back and sneak in from behind? Simple, it's not, I'm afraid you will find, for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind. You can get so confused that you'll start in to race down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space, headed, I fear, for a most useless place._"

"_The Waiting Place…_" they all said together.

"…_for people just waiting. Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to go._"

"_Or the mail to come, or the rain to go or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow,_" Olivia cut in.

Peter caught her gaze and smirked, "_or waiting around for a Yes or No._"

Olivia smiled, "_or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting_."

Etta ran a hand over the picture.

"_Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite_," Olivia read.

"_Or waiting around for Friday night_," Peter added quietly.

"_Or waiting, perhaps, for their uncle Jake, or a pot to boil_—"

"—_or a Better Break_—"

"—_or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants, or a wig with curls_—"

"—_or Another Chance_," Peter whispered.

"_Everyone is just waiting_," Olivia finishes, sighing. Her and Peter exchange a look before she turns the page.

"_NO!_" she says with Etta, "_That's not for you!_" She glances at Peter, "_Somehow you'll escape all that waiting and staying._"

Something changes in his face, but it's gone in seconds.

"_You'll find the bright places where Boom Bands are playing. With banner flip-flapping, once more you'll ride high! Ready for anything under the sky. Ready because you're that kind of guy._"

Olivia watches Peter watch her, but she also watches how these seemingly meaningless words take root in his head. She's not quick enough, however, because her daughter flips the next page in the book.

She raises her voice slightly, trying to lighten the mood, "_Oh, the places you'll go! There is fun to be done! There are points to be scored. There are games to be won. And the magical things you can do with that ball will make you the winning-est winner of all. _Fame_!_" she says, Etta echoing her. "_You'll be famous as famous can be, with the whole wide world watching you win on TV_."

Though his voice and face have softened, Olivia can still see a darkness in his eyes. "_Except when they don't. Because, sometimes, they won't. I'm afraid that _some_ times you'll play lonely games too. Games you can't win 'cause you'll play against you_."

Olivia glances at their little girl, and her brow is furrowed in thought. She looks like her father when she does that.

When she sees the words on the next pages, her heart drops. "_All Alone_," she whispers. "_Whether you like it or not, Alone will be something you'll be quite a lot. And when you're alone, there's a very good chance you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants._" She stops, feeling Etta tremble slightly in her grip. She squeezes her daughter and Peter reaches forward, tickling her feet again. "_There are some, down the road between hither and yon, that can scare you so much you won't want to go on,_" she whispers.

And she doesn't. Olivia stops reading, having lost her voice. She closes her eyes and kisses Etta's hair again, feeling Peter's firm squeeze on her calf.

His voice breaks her out of her reverie, and he sounds more reassuring than he probably feels. "_But on you will go though the weather be foul. On you will go though your enemies prowl. On you will go though the Hakken-Kraks howl. Onward up many a frightening creek, though your arms may get sore and your sneakers may leak_."

His voice changes from reassuring to playful, then again to soft and serious. "_On and on you will hike. And I know you'll hike far and face up to your problems, whatever they are. You'll get mixed up, of course, as you already know. You'll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go._"

Olivia feels his hand squeeze her leg and finds his eyes on her. When he speaks, he speaks to her. "_So be sure when you step. Step with care and great tact and remember that Life's a Great Balancing Act. Just never forget to be dexterous and deft_." He looks to Etta and smiles, grabbing her feet. "_And _never_ mix up your right foot with your left._"

She giggles.

His voice is booming, now, as he raises himself up on his knees and throws his arms out. "_And will you succeed? Yes! You will indeed!_" He leans in and stage-whispers, "_98 and ¾ percent guaranteed_."

Then he's standing, pulling Etta into his arms and onto his waist and screaming, "_KID, YOU'LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!_" while she giggles uncontrollably.

Olivia smiles at them and stands from the bed. "_So…_"

Peter tucks Etta under her covers as she sing-songs, "_be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray, or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea…_"

Olivia leans in and kisses her forehead. "_You're off to Great Places! Today is your day!_"

Peter also plants a kiss in her hair and another on her cheek, tickling her with his stubble. "_Your mountain is waiting_," he whispers, "_So…_get on your way_!_"

Etta nods to her father and her parents leave her bedroom, turning out the light. That night, she dreams of Great Places.

**(A/N: Story is **_**Oh, The Places You'll Go!**_** by Dr. Seuss. I was reading it to a girl I was babysitting and just pictured this in my head. Honestly, this is almost exactly as the text appears in the book, just some changed punctuation to accommodate dialogue. Reviews?)**


	11. The Same Mistake

"_You think I can't tell?"_

"_Peter, how many more questions am I gonna have to get right before you believe me? We've been doing this routine for two months now. I told you the name of your hamster, I told you—"_

"_You got some wrong."_

"_Yes, and maybe that's because you were confused because you were so ill."_

"_He makes you say that, doesn't he? Because he's the one who stole me."_

"_Stole you from where, Peter?"_

"_From the other world at the bottom of the lake."_

"_Love…"_

"_I know that I sound crazy. But I'm not, okay? I'm not crazy."_

* * *

"What if I can't tell?"

"Come on, Peter. How long are we gonna do this? I've answered every single one of your questions. I've told you the name of your childhood pet, the cities and cons you've run there that you told me about, the victims and suspects in cases we worked…"

"Well, you got some wrong."

"Peter, you were erased, and I lived a _whole other life_ of memories while you were gone. I get confused!"

"It's happening again, isn't it? Because I can't make the same mistake, I won't."

"What mistake, Peter?"

"I thought I was with my Olivia."

"Peter…"

"I know I'm being paranoid. But I have to be, okay? I won't be wrong again."

* * *

**(A/N: I don't know what this is, honestly. It's just dialogue. Something I had in my head and needed to get out. I don't think it's very well written, but I don't know what else to do with it. This is just runoff from my other stories. Episode dialogue in italics is from 'Subject 13'. Fill in the blanks with your own details. If you have any thoughts, send 'em to me!)**


	12. Happy Birthday

It's her first birthday after she's regained her memory. She's only a few months pregnant. She wakes, blissfully unaware of the significance of the day. She dresses for work and has breakfast in the kitchen of their new home with Peter, who speaks with her cautiously.

"What's wrong?" she asks him over their bacon-and-toast.

He studies her, and then answers, "Nothing," with a smile.

She lets him drive because she's in a good mood and he's looking like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

They're only a few minutes from the lab when her phone rings and she smiles at Peter, who stops rambling mid-sentence so she can answer it.

"Hello?"

"_Olivia, hello. I just wanted to call and tell you happy birthday_." It's Nina Sharp, and her voice is warm buzzing through her cell phone.

Olivia's smile drops slowly. "What?"

"_Did you forget?_" she teases.

Olivia raises a fake smile up, and Peter tenses. "Yes, I did."

Nina can sense the change in her voice, and asks, "_Is everything alright, Olivia?_"

"Everything's fine, Nina. Thank you for calling, it's very sweet."

"_You're welcome, dear. Have a good day._"

Peter pulls the car into their usual parking spot and turns off the engine.

"You too. Bye." She hangs up the phone and looks back to Peter. "Is that what you're worried about?"

He hesitates, but nods. "I didn't know what you remembered."

Olivia takes a deep breath. "Depends on what you mean. I remember pulling that trigger and killing him. I don't remember feeling the accompanying sense of relief that should go with it, but I remember the fear and self-loathing I felt every goddamn year when I found his damn card. And now, even when I remind myself that he's gone for good, I still find myself wondering if when my birthday rolls around because it would be just my luck that he would pop back into existence when you did or be resurrected or some complete and utter ridiculous miracle and that card be there, waiting for me." She's almost yelling, now.

"Liv," Peter whispers, but she's not done.

"Or, somehow, he never died at all and he'll come back to terrorize our child and I won't be able to stop him…" Her voice is a hoarse whisper and Peter practically runs out of the car and around to her door, yanking it open and pulling her into his arms. She's struggling to breathe normally and clutching at Peter's neck while he places kisses into her hair. Eventually, she stops fighting and just sobs softly against him, letting him pull her out of the car and shut her door.

He holds her and waits, standing on the edge of the empty parking spot beside theirs. She lifts her head from his chest and looks at him, some of her hair pulled from its binding and strewn about her face.

"Sorry," she whispers, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

He grabs her wrist and lowers it, using the thumb of his other hand to gently swipe away her tears. "Don't be. You have nothing to apologize for." He brushes his hand over her temple, smoothing and tucking her hair back down and letting his hand rest on her cheek.

She looks at him, red-rimmed and swollen from crying and nods. She lifts her hand to his face and smoothes away the creases in his brow. She runs her nails across his morning stubble and lifts on her tip-toes to whisper "Thank you," and kiss him. Then she takes his hand and they start towards the lab.

* * *

**(A/N: Just something I had niggling in the back of my brain. Super short, I know. But it's good. I like it.)**


	13. Two Halves, Two Universes

He loves her. He's always loved her. Even in the beginning, something about her was different. Now he knows. They were meant to be together.

The way her cheek fits in the palm of his hand, and she leans into his fingertips.

The way her hips flare just below her waist and fit perfectly under his hands.

The way her body reacts to his touch, whether it was back when she hid it or now when she doesn't, making his head spin a little.

Is her body made to fit in his hands?

* * *

She loves him. She's always loved him. Even in the beginning, something about him was different. Now she knows. They were meant to be together.

The way his hair feels between her fingers, and he leans into her fingertips.

The way his shoulders flare from his neck and fit perfectly under her hands.

The way his body reacts to her touch, whether it was back when it was only physical or now when it's so much more, making her heart race a little.

Is his body made to react in her hands?

* * *

The way she says his name, low and breathy, when they are close, making his skin tingle.

The way she fits perfectly in his arms, and he wants to stay wrapped around her forever.

The way her lips move against his, never out of sync and always matching in intensity.

He's found her and he'll never let her go.

* * *

The way he says her name, shortened and weighted, in any situation, makes her stomach flip.

The way he fits perfectly around her, and she wants to stay wrapped up in him forever.

The way his lips move against hers, always the same speed and never the wrong pressure.

She's found him and she'll never give him up.

* * *

Though they are from different worlds, they were a match made from the start.

They are two sides of a coin. The lawman and the lawless. The taken and the left behind. One who can't remember and one who can't forget.

They are two halves of a whole, a singular unit created to save worlds and end wars.

They have crossed time and space to find one another.

* * *

**(A/N: I had this...thing, idea, whatever you want to call it...and this is the end result. Not my best, I admit. But I needed to get something down.)**


	14. Something's Wrong Part I

"Mrs. Bishop?"

A woman, blonde, looks up from a magazine she's laid across her lap. Her hand is resting gently across the rotund swell of her abdomen, a silver wedding band encircling her third finger proudly. "Yes?" she answers, and the origin of the voice finds her gaze.

The nurse, with short, cropped brown hair and a ready smile, motions towards the door behind her with a clipboard. "We're ready for you, now."

Olivia smiles and nods, retrieving her purse from the empty chair next to her. She places the open magazine back on the table. Then she stands, hand still perched on her stomach, and follows the woman in magenta scrubs through the door.

On the other side, she is led to one of several empty examination rooms and left alone, with instructions to wait for her doctor.

She takes her purse from her shoulder and places it on a plastic bench seat in the corner of the room. She removes her dark blue jacket, which no longer closes over her pregnant belly, and drapes it over her purse. She turns at the sound of the door opening, and greets her doctor with a smile.

"Hello, Olivia. It's good to see you. How are you doing?" The older doctor talks as she goes to the sink and washes her hands, raising her voice slightly over the stream of water.

Olivia walks to the paper-clad plastic chair and sits, the cover crinkling below her legs as she shifts and maneuvers. "Um, great. Yeah. Everything's really great."

The woman in the stark-white lab coat smiles, pulling on a pair of equally white latex gloves. "Where's that wonderful husband of yours, today? He's been to every appointment so far."

"He was held up at work, but he's trying to make it," Olivia says with an unsure smile.

"Well, then let's get the routine stuff out of the way so we'll be ready when he gets here. Okay?"

Olivia nods.

The doctor sits on her wheeled, plastic-seated stool, and rolls toward Olivia. She gestures for Olivia to lift her shirt, and she obeys. The older woman brushes her red-and-gray curls from her shoulder and retrieves a stethoscope, placing the cool, round piece beside Olivia's navel and lifting the earpieces.

She listens for a moment, nods, moves the piece a few inches, and listens again. She repeats the process a few more times before lifting the instrument away and draping it over her neck once again. "Everything sounds fine. Amazing, in fact. You may have one of the smoothest pregnancies I've ever presided over."

Olivia smiles shyly. "I'm sure you say that to all the girls," a voice says from the doorway, and its presence makes something stir in Olivia's womb.

"Peter," she whispers.

"Well, looks like we found Papa," the second woman says. "Come, take a seat. We're just about to start the ultrasound."

"Hello, Dr. Warner," Peter adds, finding his way to the second stool beside Olivia. He holds out his hand and his wife takes it, his matching wedding band caught between her fingers. The metal is cool on her skin, and she squeezes gently.

"You made it," she whispers to him after the doctor leaves to retrieve the ultrasound machine.

She receives a smirk in response, but it quickly transforms into a loving grin. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Something about the statement unsettles her, rather than comforting her. But the feeling's gone in an instant.

She smiles, then drops her gaze to their joined hands.

Dr. Warner returns moments later, wheeling in a cart with a monitor and other various pieces of the machine. She stops it next to her stool, beside Olivia's legs.

"Can I have you lay back, please?"

"Sure," Olivia says quietly, and leans against the back of the chair. It puts her almost at a forty-five degree angle, giving the doctor easy access to her stomach. She pulls her shirt up from where it had fallen back down over her roundness with her free hand.

Dr. Warner approaches with a bottle of gel. "Ready?"

Olivia nods and Dr. Warner puts the cold, clear gel on her stomach around her navel. She returns the bottle to its place on the cart and reaches for the wand, flipping a few switches as she does so. The screen flickers to life, and Dr. Warner places the wand against Olivia's abdomen, spreading the gel as she does so. A picture emerges on the monitor, blurry and in shades of black and white.

She moves the wand a little more and points. "There is your baby's head," she says, then points farther over, "and its hand," and over more, "and its foot."

Olivia squeezes Peter's hand, and he squeezes right back.

"Would you like to know the sex?"

Olivia turns from the screen to Peter. "Do you want to know?" she asks.

Peter smiles at her. "It's up to you, sweetheart."

Olivia takes a deep breath and turns back to Dr. Warner. "Yes," she says simply.

The older woman smiles and turns back to the screen. She moves the wand around for a minute, then stops. She presses a button and the picture zooms in. She presses a little harder and Olivia inhales sharply. "Sorry," the doctor whispers.

After another thirty seconds of intense studying of the ultrasound, the doctor turns to them. "Congratulations, you're going to have a baby girl."

Olivia turns to Peter only to find a smile on his face. She can't help but mirror it. "A girl," he whispers. "Liv, that's our daughter."

She nods, and sighs, "Henrietta Bishop."

Peter's smile only grows wider.

* * *

After cleaning up and signing out, Peter walks Olivia to her car. "You sure you don't want me to take the rest of the day?" he asks, arm around her waist.

She shakes her head, "No, Peter, it's fine. Go back to work. Save those sick days for when we'll need them. I'm just going to run to the grocery store and then head home."

He watches her for a second, then leans down to kiss her. "Okay," he whispers, pulling away. "Love you."

"Love you," she replies, and he turns to walk to his car. "See you later," she calls after him, and he waves.

She watches him climb in and drive away, waving to him one last time as he passes before getting in her own car.

Next, she drives to the grocery store a few miles from their house and goes shopping. While walking around, leaned over the cart and pushing somewhat with her elbows, she calls her sister and tells her the good news. Then she spends several minutes talking to her niece about school, while simultaneously studying two different brands of breakfast cereal, eventually deciding on the one that's sweeter because something about it looks familiar.

She stands in line behind a woman with three kids, who politely advises her to keep the sugary foods on a higher shelf. She buys a few weeks' worth of groceries, carts it out to her car, and loads it in the back.

It's on the short drive to the house when she feels it. What it is, she doesn't know. But concerned that it will be a problem, she pulls over and turns off the car.

Her head is suddenly pounding, a splitting headache worse than any she can ever remember having. Her pulse is racing, and her skin feels feverish to the touch. She glances at herself in the rearview mirror but sees nothing. No flushed cheeks, no bloodshot eyes.

And then, moments later, it's gone. She feels normal and the headache's faded. Not even a lingering pain in the back of her skull.

She starts the car again and pulls back into traffic, headed for home.

When she gets home, she pulls in to the garage and unloads the groceries from the car. In the kitchen, she puts everything where it belongs and pours herself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher in the fridge.

She carries the glass with her, hand damp with the condensation building up around the outside, to the living room. She settles herself down on the end of the couch, leaning against the arm, and sets her drink on the coffee table. Pulling her laptop into her lap from the table, she opens it and the screen lights up automatically.

She pulls up a search engine and types in her symptoms from her episode in the car. After a moment's deliberation, she adds the word 'pregnancy'. After several links of pointless information, she deletes the final word and tries again. The search yields nothing helpful, and she closes the computer in a huff.

Setting the laptop back in its place on the coffee table, she takes a drink of her tea and reaches for 'What to Expect When You're Expecting'.

She's read the first hundred pages over and finished her tea when she glances up at the clock on the wall.

"Oh," she says to herself as she realizes what time it is, and stands. She sets her book down and carries her glass to the kitchen and begins dinner.

* * *

Olivia is standing over the stove, stirring some spaghetti sauce when she hears the front door open and close.

"Peter?" she calls.

There's no response.

On alert, she sets the spoon down and walks toward the front door. It's closed. She approaches it slowly, and glances out the window to find the driveway empty. She turns to glance behind her, and there's no one there.

"Hello?" she says softly. "Who's there?"

She's tip-toeing back toward the kitchen when she hears it, the squeak of a shoe on the hardwood floor of the dining room. She reaches toward her waist, only to find the waistband of her jeans. She pauses, confused.

"Olivia?" Peter asks, appearing a few feet in front of her, and she jumps.

"Oh, Peter, you scared me," she sighs.

He smiles. "Sorry." Walking towards her, he tucks something in his pocket.

"Why didn't you answer when I called?"

Wrapping his arms around her waist, he says, "I was listening to some music. I must not have heard you."

She whispers, "Oh," and presses a quick kiss to his lips. "Dinner's almost ready, so…"

She tries to escape but he won't release her. She giggles. He leans in and kisses her again, long and languid. "I missed you, today."

"I missed you, too," she says against his lips. She ends it with one last peck and pulls away before he can resist. She walks toward the kitchen and he follows.

"Spaghetti?" he asks.

"And garlic bread," she adds, nudging the stove with her hip.

"Yum," he whispers in to her ear, wrapping around her from behind. "When's eatin' time?"

"Maybe ten minutes. Can you set the table?" she asks, leaning back against him.

"Sure." When he's gone, she feels cold without his body against her. He goes to the cabinet and pulls down plates. He sets the table in record time, and when Olivia looks to check his handi-work she laughs. "Who else is eating with us?" she teases.

"What do you mean?" Peter asks, confused.

She looks at the table, where he's laid out three settings. She blinks, and it becomes two. "Um, nothing. Never mind."

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" he asks, leaning against the counter next to her.

She takes a deep breath. "I don't know, Peter. Weird things have been happening all day."

"Like what?"

"Well, first it was something you said at the doctor's office this afternoon. Something about it just unsettled me. And then there was the weird headache on the drive home from the grocery store. When you spooked me, I instinctively reached for my waist for no reason. Oh, and I could've sworn I saw you set three places a moment ago, but now it's two." She watched his face for a reaction, and he remained oddly calm.

Peter steps closer and gathers his wife in his arms. "It's okay, Liv."

She speaks into his chest, "Peter, I'm worried."

"Don't be."

Olivia is struck with the oddest sense of déjà vu. A memory that doesn't belong.

"_Peter, I'm scared._"

"_Don't be._"

"You just have to wake up," Peter whispers.

"What?"

He pulls away to look at her, and his voice doesn't match his lips all the way. He sounds like he's crying, but his face is uniform in front of her. "Please, just wake up."

She feels his hand on her face before it's there. Almost like her eyes are trying to catch up with her mind. "Peter, what's going on?"

"Please, Liv, you gotta wake up. For our baby, for me. Come back to me."

Then, it's as if the world melts around her, and she opens her eyes.

* * *

**(A/N: Okay, this is a two-parter, and the second half isn't finished yet. I wanted a breif glimpse at what Olivia and Peter would be like without the Fringe-verse. And just to explain, the third place setting would've been for Walter. Reviews? Theories?)**


	15. Dancing Shoes

Dancing Shoes

'Brown Betty' universe.

She wanted someone to keep her warm when she was cold, to feed her when she was hungry, and occasionally take her dancing. He wanted to finish the list.

Peter Bishop was something else. Not only did he have a heart of glass, he had a heart of gold.

And the very second that heart was split in two, Olivia Dunham's had melted in her chest. He handed half to Walter Bishop, a man that wasn't his father but might as well have been, and they both lived on with the separate pieces. Forever connecting them together.

Then he'd turned to her and held out his hand, and she'd taken it almost instinctually. The music around them was matched, he moved them with the tempo.

With her body pressed to his, her heartbeat sped and she looked into the deep blue pools of his eyes, warmly hypnotizing her into a reverie of jazz and fluid movements back and forth through the lab.

**(Totally unfinished, I know. But I hit a wall, and I wanted to post it. I know it's been a while.)**


	16. Fixing It

The door clicks shut behind them, and she smiles to herself. This feels right, she thinks.

Their shoes are the first thing off, his kicked behind the door and hers left in their wake. He's taller than her, and even more so without the extra quarter-inch provided by her work shoes.

His hand hesitantly leaves hers as he steps closer, like he's afraid if he lets go she'll disappear. She makes the effort to move towards him, she wants to show him that she's not going anywhere. He asks silently with a tilt of his head and she nods. His hands lift to her shoulders, and he pushes her coat over the curve of her upper arm and down onto the floor. It pools around her feet. She tries not to act surprised that the warmth of his touch lingers long after his hands are gone.

She goes to her buttons and she's only through the first when his hands cover hers, replacing her fingers with his own. She runs her hands from his wrists and up over his forearms and stops at his biceps, firm beneath her palms. He shudders under her touch and his eyes close, reeling from the contact. She thinks she laughs but no sound comes out, just the catch of her throat and a light exhale.

He's through her second button, and if he continues at this pace she might just rip the shirt right off.

Tightening her hold on his arms, she shifts her weight into him and her lips graze over his. He tips his head up towards her just as she pulls back, and whiskey-scented breath lingers between them. His fingers increase their speed almost unnoticeably.

She pushes forward again with the balls of her feet, and her upper lip collides with his lower one. This kiss is short, fleeting. Her hands are moving again, up over his shoulders and her slender fingers wrap around his neck. Her thumbs find the bottom edge of his scruff, and her fingers dig gently into the skin below his hair. A kiss, another. Curt, her way of telling him to _hurry the fuck up_.

And, thank _god_, he does. His fingers fumbling slightly in his rush, she runs her fingernails over the tender skin of his neck. He leans in, kisses her forcefully.

The final button releases with a light _pop! _and the thin, white cotton of her shirt falls open like a curtain, revealing a white camisole and the shadow of a dark bra beneath. His fingertips tenderly trace the swell of her breast, and his eyes pierce through and incinerate the remaining doubt in her brain.

Her resolve crumbles around them, and she leans into a kiss that catalyzes a reaction deep within her core. She has lost, her strength utterly defeated, and she couldn't have wanted any more than that.

Her hands travel down his back, forcing him farther into her arms. She claws at the hem of his sweater until it catches in her nails and she pulls it back up over his back. Her lips leave his and he follows, leaning in her direction.

The gray wool slides over his head and down his arms, landing on her shoes. He's left in a well-fitting blue undershirt, and it tightens over his back muscles as he arches down to press his mouth to the hollow of her throat. He trails up her collarbone and over her shoulder, hands on her waist and lips brushing her shoulder blades.

Her fingers curl into fists, arms wrapped tightly over his broad shoulders, and she breathes out a moan. It's so quiet, so low that she thinks for a moment he hadn't heard it. But with her mouth right next to his left ear, she's sure he has. She's proven right moments later when his tongue darts out and he tastes the skin above her clavicle.

This time, the moan is audible enough, and Olivia feels his chest vibrate against her.

"Are you….laughing…at me?" she whispers, words broken and punctuated by kisses just over her left breast.

"No," he murmurs into her chest. "I am most certainly not laughing at you."

She twines her fingers in his hair and pulls his face up gently to hers. "You better not be," she warns, and claims his lips again.

While she's confident that that's where they'll end up, Peter's made no move toward the bed yet. It's not just that he's _occupied_ at the moment, even though he is, but he's almost avoided moving from their spot at all. And frankly, she's not really for standing anymore.

She pulls away from him entirely, putting an inch of space between them. He watches her, his eyes dark and to the brim with something that she knows is more than lust. He pants lightly, catching his breath during the _hopefully_ brief separation of their bodies.

She reaches out, towards his chest, and her nails find the fabric of his shirt. She scrapes across it and gathers it in her fingers, falling back onto her heels as she walks them in the direction of the bed.

Peter's eyes widen minutely when her destination becomes clear, and he back-pedals to a stop. She's gotten them close enough that the mattress grazes her calves, and his evasion has put more distance between them.

"Peter," she whispers, a question. _What's wrong?_

Something crosses his face and she knows without his answer, but he gives her one anyway in the form of another question. "Are you sure?"

If she's honest, she doesn't know. She's afraid that it will change everything, she's more afraid it won't change anything. She's afraid that she'll regret it, she's more afraid that he'll regret it. She doesn't understand why she _needs this_ so badly, but she won't know a goddamn thing unless she keeps on.

So she answers, "Never been more." She's lying and she hates it, but if she tells him the truth he'll hold back. She punctuates the statement with the removal of her shirt, which she ungracefully yanks from her arms and tosses haphazardly in the direction of her coat.

He steps forward as she fingers the hem of her camisole, and his hand slides over her cheek. He pulls her into a surprisingly rough kiss, and her hands drift from her waist to his. He cuts the kiss off abruptly, staring into her eyes and making her equally unnerved and raw. "No, you're not," he says calmly, as if it's common knowledge. As if understanding how she feels is the simplest thing in the world.

It makes her blood boil.

"Please, Peter," she pleads. "This is what I want."

"It's what I want, too," he sighs, "But I won't rush this. I won't let myself ruin this more than I already have."

"But you didn't ruin it," Olivia insists. _I did_, she thinks, _she did. Not you._

"Don't you dare blame yourself. None of that is on you._ None_," he counters.

"But—" She's cut off by his lips, and forgets what she was going to say.

They turn, neither really paying attention to where, and then she's backed him into the bed. He sits instinctively, and then his head's level with her abdomen.

She runs an affectionate hand through his hair, and he smiles softly at her. He slides his hands under the sheer fabric of her undershirt, her skin flush beneath the pads of his fingers. The hem nudges up above her navel and he places his lips next to it, circling it with kisses.

Her hand remains at the side of his head, and she tucks a stray curl behind his ear before reaching back and releasing her own hair. She looks down as he looks up, and it falls over their faces like a golden curtain.

His hand on her lower hip moving back tugs her gently onto his lap, one of her legs on either side. His hands take a firm hold on her thighs and she tilts back just so, using her free hands to finally, _finally_ rid her torso of the clinging fabric of her tanktop.

He leans in to her and presses his lips firmly against the flat expanse of skin above her bra. She holds him close, hands on his neck and shoulders.

She cannot help the thoughts that flood her mind, and she fights them. She pushes anything and everything away except his mouth on her, his hands on her, and the way he feels beneath her.

And the last piece of the puzzle falls into place.

Every single one of his words makes sense, every last protest and every last request is suddenly in crystal clear to her.

It was never _her_, it was never just her, it was never just him. It was the two of them, together. They are a singular unit, they are two halves of one whole that can do anything.

Olivia was not Olivia without Peter, and Peter was not Peter without Olivia. They are interchangeable, they are reciprocal, they are unlimited

He whispers something into her skin, and then pulls back.

"What?" she whispers, missing his words but not the vibration in her chest when he speaks.

"Olivia," he replies hoarsely. And that's all he says.

It's all she needs. In one word, four syllables, six letters, he says more than any other man could say in a five-hundred page book.

_I want you. I need you. I love you._

She leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead.

Then the bridge, the tip of his nose. The little space of skin above his upper lip.

"Peter," she whispers back, smiling.

His lips capture hers and it's impossible to say anything more.

They fall back onto the mattress, bouncing slightly with the coils within. His hands slide up the tender skin of her hips to her sides and then the band of her bra. He unclasps it easily.

It remains wedged between them until she yanks it out and it disappears from her hand somewhere in the small room.

She leans back just enough that he can see her, and she can reach for the button of his dark jeans. It snaps open within her nimble fingers and the zipper slides down.

They share a heavy look. So heavy that her eyelids droop, her eyes scream for temporary relief from the sight. She refuses, returns the look with just as much weight. His grip tightens on her waist possessively.

Her hands land on top of his and guide them down. His hands undo her slacks and she shimmies just slightly so that they fall to her ankles. Peter lifts her out of them and onto the bed beside him. He stands and she finds her way to his pillow, curling into it and stretching along the length of the small bed.

When he's lying down beside her, his pants are gone. He nudges her over just enough to fit onto the mattress beside her, but she quickly curls into him and twines her legs with his.

The pads of his fingers roam, skim every curve and plain of her bare back. He is a cartographer, exploring her landmarks, some familiar and some new. His finger brushes the nape of her neck and she shivers, completely involuntary and only partially out of pleasure; the skin there flawless but he knows about the tattoo, the last physical remnant of her time Over There erased without a trace.

He'd only hoped the memories could go so easily. Because even as she'd forgiven him, given them the chance to move on, she still had the ink burned into the back of her mind.

He moves away from the tender spot and back down, his fingers dancing and counting her vertebrae. His movements over her spine remind him of his movements on a piano, so delicate and cautious but with just the right amount of pressure to make the note ring perfectly.

He thinks of her similarly, a piece of music he's only just playing for the first time. It will forever be his favorite melody.

She turns her head towards him, watching him tiredly. Her eyes light him up, a green so perfect for her it had no name but olive with accents of gold that, to him, represent her strength and silent elegance.

The heel of her chin digs into her forearm as she tilts her head, and his eyes find hers.

He feels a question swimming behind her irises. He knows she won't ask it, and if he's right about it he hopes she doesn't. He tries his hardest to push _her_ from his mind, forget any details his mind picked up in his few weeks with the other Olivia. It's only somewhat successful, because unconsciously his mind had assigned it all in the Olivia category and his efforts to move it all out are pretty fruitless.

Considering it was, in fact, an Olivia, and while some details blend and exchange, others are too obviously different to ignore.

He hates that thinking about Olivia needs a precursor of sorting and eliminating. He prays to several godly entities that it's only a temporary task.

But _god_, does he love her. His Olivia, his beautiful and strong and broken Olivia, who battles the impossible and fears only herself.

He leans down and kisses her, and suddenly they're continuing what they started.

She climbs on top of him and presses herself down, his body screaming for her. She's warm, so _warm_, and he thinks they'll catch fire.

He thumbs the waistband of her panties and scrapes his nails over her hips. She responds immediately, coming down on him again. Her lips move over his, and they are seamless. He loses himself, forgetting where one ends and the other begins.

Honestly, there is no right answer. They are one. A few minutes later, they come together as one.

Together, they ebb and flow. They rock back and forth. All direction, no direction, it doesn't matter. Neither of them notices anything but the other. Their bodies move in sync, as if they'd done this a million times before. It's not the familiarity with the act, though, it's their familiarity with each other. They can read each other, they know what to do and where to go without asking.

Their movements quicken, and her nails dig into his back as he pulls her down onto him again and again. The pressure builds, in her core, hot and demanding and _growing_.

They whisper, his name on her lips and her name on his, falling into the room around them.

She literally holds his gaze, hands on either side of his face.

And then the room explodes.

They ride the high, shivering and quaking wrapped around each other, lost in each other.

_This_, she thinks, _I want this. Forever._

They fall back into the bed, pasted together with sweat and tangled limbs.

She reaches out, asking for his hand, and he gives it. And in her grip, he knows it'll all be okay. They have fought their final battle, and they have won.

She closes her eyes, leans into their embrace and lets her body relax. She knows she will not last much longer, sleep pulling at every limb and muscle. "I forgive you," she whispers inaudibly. And she means it. Not because of the sex, but because of the fact that all she can feel is him, pure and raw and loving. Something she had not felt often before, not for a long time, and because it's all she ever want to feel for the rest of her life.

She lets her eyes fall shut and she sleeps, tucked into his chest.

He smiles.

**(A/N: I suck at writing sex. Sorry. This is good until 'A few minutes later...' But review, because I could be completely wrong. Maybe this is the worst thing you've ever read, maybe I didn't completely screw (yes, I went there) the sex scene. Reviews are to stories as water is to plants.)**


	17. Showers, Books, and Bedtime

Though Walter had insisted on bringing an umbrella, it was left forgotten, hanging from its thin rope around his wrist.

The walk had been Peter's idea. Olivia had glanced out the window and tried to compromise, agreeing to watch the movie Peter and Walter had picked out. But as soon as he said it, Walter's eyes had lit up and she knew she would be the defeated minority.

The gray skies and dark clouds were imposing, but remained benign until they had made it almost a dozen blocks from the house.

Then the sky opened up and let pour a storm of almost biblical proportions.

After a few minutes, Olivia can hear the water squish in her shoes after every step. Her hair is wild and wavy and wet. Her jacket no longer keeping her warm, just holding the cold around her body.

She groans, and Peter laughs quietly. She shoots him a glare and he turns grinning back to Walter, who had run several feet in front of them and was splashing in the new puddles.

"Peter, look! Look!" he calls before jumping right into a particularly large puddle, and the water comes up in a ring around his feet. He giggles with delight before continuing on.

After another five or six blocks Olivia stops walking, pulling back on Peter's arm. "Let's turn around," she pleads, but Peter just smiles and shakes his head.

"This journey has a destination, you know," he states, pulling her forward with him once again.

She sighs, and continues walking.

Peter eventually leads them into a small coffee shop. Three of the four walls are lined with shelves and shelves of books while the remaining wall holds the front windows and a small kitchenette.

"I found this place right after…a few months ago. Sometimes I come here to unwind or hide."

Walter is already on the other side of the room, running his fingers over the book bindings and murmuring to himself.

Olivia turns to the counter and scans for a cashier or a waitress.

Peter laughs. "It's self-serve," he tells her, and points to a homemade vending machine of sorts. "You put in two bucks and get a cup, then you pour your coffee and put whatever you want in it. The books are all seven dollars, and you pay in the box by the door."

"So they just go by the honor system?" she asks, skeptically.

"Yeah. But I've never seen anyone walk out of here with a book and not put something in the box."

She shrugs. Peter reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, handing Olivia two damp one dollar bills. He pulls out four more and feeds them to the machine. It spits out two purple paper cups, one after the other. Then he turns and walks away towards Walter.

Olivia feeds her money after Peter steps away and receives a cup. She takes it, then looks over the different amenities around her.

She gets her usual, coffee with one sugar. Peter gets it black, and Walter opts for the hot chocolate. When they approach the seating area, Olivia sheds her soaked jacket and drapes it over the back of a wooden chair. She joins Peter, who has also removed his watery overcoat, in front of a bookcase.

"See anything interesting?" she asks softly, resting her chin atop the curve of his shoulder.

"Yes, actually." He reaches forward and removes an older looking book, the spine bent and worn with multiple readings. The words are too faded for Olivia to make out, but he turns it cover up and she reads the title aloud.

"_The Gunslinger_." She watches as he flips through the book, where there are notes scribbled in the margins in pencil and multiple colors of pen. "What's it about?"

"A cowboy named Roland who crosses the desert in pursuit of a wizard he calls the 'Man in Black'. It's the first in a series of seven or eight. You've never heard of it?"

She hums a no and he sighs. "Have you read it?" she whispers in his ear, wrapping her arms around his waist.

"Not in a long time. It's Stephen King. I lived off these books in, like, the sixth grade."

She slides her chin down his back and smiles into his shoulder. "Well, maybe you can read them to me."

He chuckles, and it vibrates through him and against her chest.

After draining their cups and refilling them for the walk back, Peter has to drag Walter away from the shelves—and the ominous stack of books he'd collected. Olivia grabs Peter's book, one book from the top of the stack for Walter, and a book she selected for herself. While Peter helps Walter back into his jacket, Olivia counts out some money from her own wallet and tucks it in the box by the door. She tucks the books inside her coat to attempt to protect them from the remaining trickle of rain.

The walk back to the Bishop house seems shorter than the walk from it had been, but eventually they make it.

Just inside the door, Walter wanders off with his new book while Peter and Olivia strip off as much of their wet clothes as they dare, before jogging up the stairs to the shower.

"Ugh, I'm so cold," she complains as Peter locks the door behind them.

"Well, a hot shower sounds amazing right about now. What do you think?"

She nods enthusiastically, hugging herself and rubbing her upper arms. As Peter crosses the room and starts the spray of water, Olivia strips her remaining camisole, pants, and underwear to the floor. She disappears behind the curtain and leaves Peter seemingly alone in the small bathroom.

He chuckles to himself and also strips off his damp, minimal clothing.

When he steps into the shower, he notices how Olivia's still shivering while she stands completely underneath the steaming hot water.

"Come here," he whispers, and he wraps his arms around her. She leans into him, skin against skin, and trembles within his hold.

And for several minutes, that's all they do. When she finally stops shaking, she gently pushes her hands flat against his chest and his arms drop. The room is so foggy that Peter can barely see her as she starts her shower routine.

Shampoo. Rinse. Conditioner. Body. Rinse.

He, however, doesn't have a routine of his own. He merely follows her lead.

She passes his shampoo. She passes his soap. After she's done, they trade places and he rinses.

She climbs out before him, and a minute later the door to the hall opens and closes.

He shuts off the shower and the steam starts to dissipate. Music floats up from the floor below, some Violet Sedan Chair that makes Peter smile. He wraps a towel around his waist and follows Olivia's droplet trail to his bedroom.

He's standing in his doorway, watching her dry her hair and sit on the bed, when it hits him. The aroma of her soap. He sniffs, and it's too strong and close to be coming from her, all the way across the room.

"Did you hand me _your_ shampoo?" he asks incredulously.

She smiles. "I don't know," she lies. "I couldn't see a thing."

He scoffs and steps in to the room.

She's already dressed for bed, a gray cotton shirt and her black sweatpants. On closer examination, he realizes it's _his_ shirt she's wearing, the letters M-I-T emblazoned in a faded red print. The letters are more faded than he remembers.

"Where did you find that?" he asks, pointing at her chest.

She looks at him for a moment, then away and shrugs. She gathers all her hair to one side and towels it in long, mindless strokes.

He pulls open a drawer and randomly pulls a pair of boxers. The next drawer offers up a navy blue shirt. He drops his towel to the floor and throws them on hastily. He picks up the towel and brushes the excess water from his dark hair. Draping it over the back of the chair at his desk, he takes a seat at the end of his small bed by Olivia's feet.

She pulls the towel from her hair and lets it sit in her lap. He takes it and tosses it somewhere on the other side of the room, and then pulls her feet into his lap.

"Full disclosure?" he asks softly.

She says nothing, but tilts her head questioningly.

He smirks. "Did you really trick me into using your soap?"

The corner of her mouth tugs upwards. "Maybe," she whispers. "But only because you dragged me through the rain."

He laughs, his thumbs moving in circles over the ball of her left foot. "I suppose I deserved that."

"My turn," she whispers. "How did you really find that coffee shop?"

Peter's eyes drop to her feet. "Things between me and Walter were…weird. And things between you and me were even weirder. I went for walks. Often. To escape my thoughts, to escape everything." He sighs, "And I just kind of stumbled across it."

Olivia nods.

"Where did you really find my shirt?" he asks suddenly, surprising her.

"I, uh…" she stopped and cleared her throat. "I've had it." And, really, that's all she says. It's all she can say.

And it's all he needs. He nods, resuming his work on her feet. They sit, silent, through several songs and a record change.

Olivia wiggles her feet in his hands when they start to tingle, and he slides them off his lap and back onto the bed. He scoots up beside her, his back against the headboard. She curls against him, her temple to his chest.

She can hear his heart beating. Thump. Thump. Thump. His arm drapes around her hesitantly, as if afraid she'll push him away. She grabs his wrist and pulls him closer, resting his hand between both of her own.

He turns and plants a kiss in her hair.

"Read to me?" she asks quietly.

Looking at his hand, she can't see him smile, but she feels his cheek tighten against her scalp. He reaches his free hand over to the nightstand and slides the book onto his lap beside her. He lets it fall open, and flips back a few pages.

"_The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed_."

**(A/N: Lots o' stuff in this fic. Some Stephen King, some good ol' Full Disclosure, an awesome make-believe coffee shop/book store, and some classic Polivia fluff. Oh, and some fun Walter moments. This is one of my good ones. I like it a lot. Reviews please!)**


	18. Synchronicity

Olivia Bishop.

It had a nice ring to it. It sounded breathtakingly and heart-achingly _right_.

But mostly, it was a vow that they would be together, no matter what, for as long as they could fight for it.

It was bad enough that the first thing Olivia thought of after 'yes, oh my god, yes' was 'til death do us part isn't gonna work'.

And when she'd told Peter later, he'd laughed. The sound was so unexpected that she had jumped. And then she proceeded to wipe the smirk off his face in her favorite way, with a kiss.

Even Etta had been in a celebratory mood, kicking gently at Olivia's insides.

The proposal had been cheesy, but in a wonderful, Peter kind of way. He'd only just finished assembling the red cedar crib they'd picked out the day before, and Olivia had enjoyed watching Peter struggle with it.

"I can fake my way into MIT, but I can't put together a damn crib," he'd grunted in frustration.

Olivia had giggled.

But, eventually, it came together and Peter had called Olivia into the nursery-in-progress to show off his handiwork.

It helped that a ring was sitting in the middle of the bare white mattress.

"I figured we better make it official," he whispered into her ear, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

She reached in and retrieved the sparkling thing, a silver band with a simple, small, elegant clear stone gazing back at her. She didn't speak, couldn't take her eyes off of it.

"Unless you don't want to," he back-tracked. His hold had loosened but did not go, and his words were laced with something that was sad, but understanding.

"No," she'd said quickly, turning in his arms.

He'd tilted his head, asking for clarification.

"No, I want to," she'd whispered, smiling. "And yes, I will marry you."

His thousand-watt grin left her helpless in his arms, and he slipped the ring from between her fingers, only to slide it into its place on her left hand.

It fit perfectly.

Etta Bishop.

The words fell from her lips effortlessly. Her baby girl, finally in her arms, and it felt so _right_.

Her perfect little nose, perfect little ears, perfect little fingers and toes, perfect little lips.

And green eyes that were her mother's but would be replaced by her father's, but all for the better in Olivia's opinion.

And when Peter had held Etta, he'd laughed. The sound was so beautiful and happy that she couldn't stop the smile, as tired as she was. And then he proceeded to give their daughter the first of many, a kiss on her perfect little head.

Etta seemed tired, too, but she stretched out her arms and legs to test the new space around her.

The birth had been slow, but all worth it in the end. Olivia had suffered through 36 hours of agonizing labor, but she'd gladly do it all over again if it gave her this beautiful baby.

"I can cross universes in seconds, but I can't deliver this freaking baby," she'd sighed in hour thirty-two.

Peter had chuckled.

But, eventually, it was all over and she had held the newborn wriggling in her arms and she'd cried tears of joy and love.

It helped that Peter had been right there, crying along with her in the middle of the ugly white hospital room.

"I think it's time for introductions," Peter whispered later from beside her, careful not to wake the now sleeping baby.

Olivia reached and ran her fingers over the downy blonde hair on her daughter's head. She didn't speak, couldn't take her eyes off of her.

"Unless you're not ready," he added. He stood from the chair, waiting for an answer.

"Sure," she nodded, almost silent.

He placed a gentle kiss in her hair, and turned to go.

"One at a time," she told him, looking up. "Walter first."

He smiled a smile that made her heart pound, nodded, and disappeared behind the door. She looked down at her daughter, the newest member of their family.

She fit perfectly.

**(A/N: POLIVETTA FLUFF! Whoo! Review please?)**


	19. Teach Me

He could only just barely hear her tiny footsteps down the stairs, her staccato rhythm blending nicely with the notes flooding from the piano. The keys pressed smoothly beneath his fingers, and he played on.

She ran up next to him, making herself comfortable in her spot on the bench. He could feel, even as his attention was elsewhere, her buzzing excitement. She vibrated beside him.

And he finished the song earlier than it was written, but he could sense that she would not last must longer before she gave up and lost interest.

He dropped his hands into his lap and turned to her.

"Daddy, will you teach me?" she asks, her voice so light and adorable and, somehow, just like her mother's when she's naked and half-asleep next to him in bed and she shoots back the sarcasm just as well, if not better, than he has.

"Of course, sweetheart." A nickname once her mother's, but loving passed down to their little girl. "Place your hands on the keys."

She does, her short, cherub fingers on his piano filling him with a sense of fatherly pride.

He scoots them down the bench slightly and places her fingers in the correct places. She giggles when he moves them, one at a time.

Then he places his hands on top of hers and presses her fingers down on the keys with him, a slow melody pouring out with each additional note. He glances down at her, and her eyes light up with every key-press.

"Look, Etta, you're playing!" he whispers in her ear, and she giggles.

He can feel his wife's presence behind them, and he lets her observe. He can sense her, all of her, and he knows that even though she's enjoying the sight that she's also worrying about something. She's borderline afraid and he almost considers stopping to go to her.

But she needs this. He needs this. Etta needs this.

The song finishes, in its proper way this time, and Etta looks up at him. "What did we play?" she asks, eyes alight.

"We played some Bach for Mommy," he whispers. "Mommy doesn't think Daddy knows she likes jazz, so he always plays her some Bach, too."

"Can we play some jazz now, Daddy?"

"If it's okay with Mommy, then we can play some jazz." He turns back, letting her know he feels her.

She smiles but it doesn't hide the wetness in the corner of her eyes.

"Mommy?" Etta asks without turning around, because she can feel her there, too. "Can Daddy and I play some jazz to cheer you up?"

Their silent trifecta, always aware of one another.

"Sure, baby girl. Play me some jazz."

Peter watches her a second longer, and apparently it's too long for his daughter, who's already got her fingers on the keyboard. They're in the right places this time, her ever-evolving mind catching up with his teaching.

"Come on, Daddy. We need to make Mommy feel better," she whispers to him.

"Okay," he whispers back.

And they play her some jazz.

Peter doesn't really know what to expect when he sits down at the piano. It's been over twenty years since he played, but it only feels like a few weeks. But he places his hands on the keys and it feels right. He starts to play something he knows well but cannot name off the top of his head.

He closes his eyes and plays blind, his favorite way.

He can feel her in the room before he hears her, and a floorboard creaks beside him as she sits on the other end of the bench.

She's quiet, but she's vibrating next to him, a feeling he knows well. He ends the song early like a day so long ago, when she had been a little girl and he hadn't wanted to lose her attention.

"Bach," she whispers, and her disbelief is unnerving. "But you played it wrong."

Etta takes in a deep, long breath.

He opens his eyes and finds a smirk, his smirk, tainting her pretty smile and he can't help but mirror her.

Her fingers lift to the keys and play the same piece, but she plans on ending it correctly.

He can't help but recognize it, now. She plays it as well as he did, making no mistakes and keeping the beat in perfect time.

And in this moment, he's so proud of his daughter.

"I asked Nina to put me in piano lessons for the longest time, but she always said that I should try something else first, like the oboe."

Peter laughs in spite of himself.

"I finally got into lessons when I was fourteen or fifteen, and my piano teacher hated how fast I picked it up. It meant less sessions."

The floorboard across the room creaks and then there's the third of their little unit, behind them. She's quiet, watching, and the raw emotions come off her in waves.

She steps closer as Etta plays, not speaking out loud but in her own way, their own way.

She missed this. Having her family, that's what Olivia missed most. And now she has it back, and she can't—she won't let anything or anyone take it from her this time.

Peter and Etta feel the same, and she knows it.

Etta finishes the piece—perfectly, Peter would boast later in bed to his wife, their first night together in over two decades.

And while Etta would love to spend the dark hours relearning her mother's embrace, their easy conversations, and sharing memories of time lost, she understands. Her parents have been apart from each other almost as long as she has from them.

She would want that first night of togetherness to herself, too.

Olivia places a firm hand on Peter's shoulder, and his smile grows by fractions, decimals. Her other hand goes to Etta's shoulder blade, a light touch that's to let her know she's there but not invading her personal space completely.

And while she's grateful her mother understands that she's grown up in a world without her affectionate touches, she kind of wishes she would push her, just a little. Take the option to pull back away from her, and force her to find the love in her arms again.

"Now," Olivia says slowly, quietly, so as not to disturb the peace of the moment, "how about some jazz?"

Peter laughs under his breath.

Etta feels a tear well up in the corner of her eye, and it slides down her cheek as she smiles.

Her hands and her father's hands find their way back to the black-and-white piano keys, and together they fill the house with the music of family.


	20. Reunion

"Peter, come back to bed," she says quietly.

Olivia had woken to find him standing at the window. It was still dark out, the middle of the night.

It was freezing and he was in nothing but a pair of sweats, his hand covering the fresh bandage on the back of his neck.

"Aren't you cold?"

He turns back to look at his wife. The dim moonlight reveals a hint of a smile, and he pads back towards her bed.

"No," he says, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

She reaches over and stretches her arm across his torso, pulling him further into the bed. "Well, _I_ am."

He chuckles and slides closer to her, wrapping his arms around her waist. She twines her legs into his and drops her head to his broad, bare chest.

"Much better," she whispers, eyes closed. She feels his lips press into her hair.

"I missed you," she says after several minutes.

He wants to say '_I missed you, too_' but he knows it would be a lie. So, instead, he whispers, "I'm sorry."

"Oh, Peter," she sighs. "You were trying to get justice for our daughter."

"It doesn't change the fact that what I did was dangerously reckless. And even if I had killed Windmark, I would've lost _you_."

Olivia pulls him in tighter, and he runs a hand over her hair. Looking up at him, she smiles.

"But you didn't."

He grins. "No, I didn't."

Curled back into his chest, Olivia yawns softly. "Who would've thought twenty-eight years ago that we'd end up here?"

"Has it really been that long?" he asks.

"Well," she says, "not counting the time we were in amber, it's still been about seven years."

"Wow," he whispers. "We're _old_."

She smacks his chest gently. "Shut up."

"If my math is correct—and it is—we're about fifty-seven, fifty-eight years old."

"Eew."

"Which would make Walter about ninety."

"Don't tell him that."

Peter laughs, shaking both him and Olivia in his arms. She laughs, too, and Peter pulls her closer.

There's really no space left between them.

Olivia's laughter fades into a small smile, and she runs her fingers up Peter's toned shoulder-blades, through his mussed hair, over the soft shell of his ear, down his stubbly cheek, and traces the edge of his bottom lip.

He stills, but her fingers move back and forth over the plump flesh.

He brings up a hand and captures her fingers within his own, kissing the ridges of her fingerprints.

"I love you, too," he whispers against her fingertips, and she nips at the corner of her bottom lip.

"I know."

* * *

**A/N: Post-ep for 5x08. You guys, we only have FOUR episodes left. (And only like THREE Fringe Fridays because the last two are supposed to be on the same night or something.) I'm scared, to be honest. But I won't bore you with my weird television-show-dependence. Reviews equal my saving grace!**


	21. She Can Be Trusted

"She can be trusted."

"_No one trusts our kind anymore."_

"She can help us. She has done so in the past."

"_And if she won't?"_

"Then there is no hope."

* * *

It hurts. Not as much as it would if he were completely human, but it's still the worst pain he's felt since the bullet from Bell's gun sank into his chest.

He had hoped he could walk around in public. If he was unthreatening, he would blend in to the new landscape of the others. Even they ignored his presence. But when he turned a corner into an alley in Harvard Yard, a 'Native' charged him. He diverted most of his advances, but somehow the man still managed to stick the knife in September's abdomen.

He needed medical attention. His body betraying him, he crumpled in the gutter as the Native fled.

After several minutes, he stands. He wraps his fingers around the handle of the knife and pulls.

It's a searing pain shooting through his gut as the metal slides out. The bloodied knife drops to the ground with an audible _clunk_.

He begins to walk. He uses shortcuts and back routes to avoid being seen, and when he can't he holds his arm strategically over the growing red blemish on his pristine suit.

The lab door is unlocked when he arrives. The bronze-colored knob turns with ease in his hand. As he steps inside quietly, unphasing the conversing team within, he is struck with something.

A feeling of something familiar. What they call 'déjà vu', when one experiences something more than once.

He's about to speak, but then one head turns up to look him in the eyes. She is blonde, but she is not Olivia Dunham. Although, she does bear a striking resemblance.

His head tilts unconsciously as he studies her face, and she mimics him. After another moment of watching each other, the small girl smiles. She turns and tugs on a woman's arm. "Mommy, look."

The woman who looks up at him now is Olivia Dunham. At first, her eyes fill with fear.

Then five sets of eyes are on him. The 'Boy', Peter Bishop, charges forward. September doesn't stop him.

But everyone freezes when they notice the bloody hole in his stomach. He turned his gaze back to Olivia.

"We need your help."

* * *

September had not spoken again. But, seeing as no one was asking him questions like they were usually so adamant on doing, he felt no need to.

While Dr. Bishop had recognized him and almost instantly changed his demeanor to the politeness September had come to appreciate, the others remained on alert. They watch his every move, even though he makes little.

The small little girl with blonde hair and blue eyes had been quickly shuffled off into another room by the dark-haired female at the Boy's instruction.

Dr. Bishop leads him to a chair, and begins to remove his jacket. Remembering the instance where he had treated his gunshot wound, September makes no move to stop him. He helps remove his tie and shirt and lays them aside.

The blood had been mostly absorbed by his shirt, and had not yet spread much further.

As Dr. Bishop cleans his wound, September watches Olivia and the Boy whisper to each other across the room. Even if he still could, he doesn't need to read them to know what they are discussing.

Olivia catches his gaze. She stops whispering and straightens her back. The Boy watches as she steps closer.

"Who's we?" she asks, arms crossed defensively across her chest.

"The remaining of our original scientific team. Myself, and seven others."

Dr. Bishop must have done something wrong because he whispers an apology, but September feels nothing.

"Why do you need help?"

"We have been outcasted, separated from the Others. We did not support the plan for taking over your world."

She glances at the Boy over her shoulder, and then back to September. "What happened to the others?"

His head tilts minutely, but his eyes never leave hers. "August was killed by Donald in the previous timeline."

Olivia's back tenses, and her mouth opens and closes but she doesn't speak. The Boy steps forward, shoulder to shoulder with her.

"January and February were banished, much like I was."

Now it's the Boy who tenses, clearing understanding what he means.

"And November agreed to join the others."

"How are we supposed to help you?" the Boy asks impatiently.

"Her. She is our only hope."

Olivia looks at the Boy, he looks back. She turns away. "Well, how am I supposed to help you, then?"

He pauses. "I don't know."

* * *

Etta had turned back to watch the bald man as Aunt Astrid led her across the lab to her grandfather's office.

She closes the door behind them.

"Aunt Astrid, who was that man?" Etta asks, sliding herself onto the leather couch that smells funny.

"Uh, he's an old friend of your parents," she half-lies. She sits down on the couch beside the girl.

"He looks like the people Mommy and Daddy talk about. The bad men. The Observers."

"Well, um…" she struggles, "He is an Observer."

"But he's not bad," Etta states.

Astrid watches her a moment. "No, I guess he's not."

"He looks nice. In his eyes."

Astrid quickly busies the small child with some crayons and an organic chemistry coloring book, before exiting the office to check on her team and their visitor.

* * *

"What do you mean, you don't know?" the Boy asks.

The door closes behind the dark-haired woman as she reenters the lab. "What'd I miss?" she asks Olivia.

"I'm supposed to help them, but he doesn't know how."

"Just before we were stripped and forced to flee, I travelled forward a final time. Just long enough to see _you_ were the one who would help us."

"And you didn't see anything else? Nothing that tells us how to help you?" she asks.

"I did see one thing," he says. "I saw myself teaching Dr. Bishop how to rid your world of all of us."

* * *

**A/N: Okay, I wrote this ages ago. Kind of AU, but eh. Reviews are fuel for my internal fanfiction rocket pen. Did anyone else totally read this in Michael's Observer voice? 'Cause that's totally how I wrote it. :D**


	22. Merry Christmas

"I still don't know how you talked Broyles into giving us Christmas off, but I'm not entirely sure I want to."

Olivia giggles. She _actually giggles_. "I may have promised him that you'd work New Year's…and Easter, and next Thanksgiving."

"Walter's going to be disappointed about that last one," he adds with a grin.

Not that's he's happy, but…when she smiles, it's suddenly contagious.

Her smile falls away slowly, in degrees: she glances at him, it falls only slightly; she looks down at the pile of paperwork she has left, and it falls even more. By the time pen hits paper, it's gone completely, her eyes intent on the page.

Peter takes his usual seat at the adjacent side of 'her table'—as he likes to call it when she's not around—and leans back slightly in his chair.

"What are your plans for Christmas?" he asks casually.

She doesn't look up. "Well, Rachel and Ella flew to Chicago to see Greg, so we already did something. It was small."

"Yeah, but what about _actual_ Christmas? Don't tell me you're just gonna sit at home and do paperwork."

She lifts her eyes, gives him a little smirk. "You know, if you helped with the paperwork, I wouldn't have to do it on Christmas."

He chuckles, picks up a pen and slides a folder in front of himself. "You know," he mimics, "you could always come spend Christmas with Walter and I."

"What?"

"Come on, Olivia, don't be a Grinch. Or a Scrooge. Come celebrate with us." He tries not to push, but now that the idea's out there he _really_ wants her to say yes.

"No, you and Walter should have your own family thing. Don't feel like you have to babysit me just because I don't have plans." She's still writing as she argues with him.

"I don't think you need _babysitting_," he says, with a slight grimace he hopes she doesn't notice. "I just think it would be totally against the holiday spirit to leave you saddled with all the paperwork and no one to enjoy it with."

She looks up like '_Really?_' but he just smiles. They stare each other down for about ten seconds before she breaks eye-contact, looking back down at her papers.

"Maybe," she says quietly, and Peter knows he's won. Even if he has to drag her to the lab—or, easier, Walter to her apartment—he'll make sure she has a decent Christmas.

Maybe even better.

* * *

The Christmas carols were turned up and the lab smelled of gingerbread and peppermint.

Walter, humming as he decorated little men-cookies, had been thrilled at the idea of Olivia spending Christmas with them.

Even Gene donned a Santa hat. Peter was surprised she hadn't shaken it off yet.

At about nine o'clock, Astrid stops in with a jug of homemade eggnog.

"Don't let Walter have more than one, the alcohol content in this batch is pretty high," she stage-whispers to Peter as they carry it to the fridge.

"Oh, Astro!" Walter sing-songs. "I have something for you."

Astrid smiles and wanders in Walter's direction.

While Peter's rearranging the entire fridge to fit Astrid's eggnog—finding a place between the most recent attempt at strawberry milkshakes and something that was green and maybe moving proved surprisingly difficult.

The sound of the door behind him makes him turn back, and over his shoulder he catches a flash of blonde and the door closing behind her.

"Hello, my dear!" Walter says, and Peter kicks the refrigerator closed.

"Hi, Walter," she says. "Hi, Astrid."

"Olivia, Merry Christmas!"

When Peter walks in, Astrid is hugging Olivia with a very chipper Walter watching over them.

"Astrid," Peter says, "have you already had some of that eggnog?"

She releases Olivia, and giggles. "Maybe. But don't worry, I didn't drive here. Actually, my dad's waiting outside, so I should probably go…"

Astrid hugs Olivia again—quicker this time—kisses Walter on the cheek and then jogs over and tackles Peter in a hug.

Then she's running towards the door, "Bye!"

Peter chuckles until she's out of sight and turns to Olivia.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey, yourself," he teases. "Merry Christmas."

"Thanks, you too."

She's not in work clothes, which is a good sign. But even now, he can see her itching to get to her table—to her paperwork.

"Why don't we bring that eggnog out?" Peter suggests.

She nods, smiles fractionally. "Sure."

Back at the fridge, Olivia sips at her drink and grimaces. "Wow," she says quietly.

"Yeah," Peter agrees, coughing, "She said it was strong, but this is almost too much."

"Strong enough to get us through a foot of paperwork?"

"Doubtful."

With Walter doing…_something_ with the gingerbread cookies, Olivia places a small, silver wrapped item a few feet from him as they walk past.

Peter glances back long enough to see Walter notice the gift and reach for it with a curious look.

* * *

Maybe two hours later, with almost half the paperwork in the 'finished' pile, Peter drops his head to the table.

"Can we be done for awhile?"

Olivia looks up, crosses her arms. "Eggnog too much for you, Bishop?"

"No," he says, pretending he doesn't have the beginnings of a headache. "Paperwork is so boring. And…"

He gets up, rummages around in a nearby 'junk' pile, and manages to dig out a small black box with red ribbon.

"Peter, you didn't have to," she sighs.

"Well, I did, so open it."

She picks up the box delicately, pulling the ribbon until it unravels and falls away.

She pulls off the lid and sets it down gently.

What comes out of the box is a pen, bathed in sleek black metal.

"It's one of those zero-gravity pens. So you can write upside-down and the ink won't cut out."

"So I can do my paperwork anywhere?" she teases.

"Exactly," he counters. "Because in Fringe Division, no matter what happens, we still have to do paperwork."

She laughs, takes off the cap and places on the opposite side of the pen.

She scribbles her signature on the form in front of her, the flowing lines flawless on the page. "So, if I was, say, writing on the ceiling, it would still work?"

"Yep," he says. "The ink is supposed to last at least a year, but since our division has paperwork that multiplies on its own, there are three refills in the box as well."

She sits back in her chair, either end of the pen in each hand. "Thank you, Peter. This is great."

He chuckles. "You're welcome."

Leaning forward, she says, "I _may_ have gotten you something, too." She slides her hand back into the jacket draped over the back of her chair and pulls something from her pocket.

It's in simple silver wrapping paper, a box slightly larger than a deck of cards.

"In case the eggnog wasn't spiked already," she smiles.

He tears the wrapping on the edge, keeping it mostly intact—_why_, he doesn't know or won't admit. Sliding out the box, it's a little sampler of whiskey, holding two bottles the same size as the ones they would give you on an airplane.

When he looks up, they're both grinning.

* * *

He wakes to find the bed empty next to him, but still warm. He finds her over by his dresser, with only a sheet around her bare body.

He glances over at his clock and realizes what day it is. "Hey," he says softly. "Merry Christmas."

She looks back over her shoulder, eyes soft. "Merry Christmas," she whispers.

"What'cha doin'?"

"You still have them."

She pads back to the bed. "Of course," he whispers as she sits on the edge of the mattress.

"I still have the pen."

"You better," he mocks, "I bought you enough ink to last a few years."

"I actually had to buy new ink a while back," she whispers, laying back down beside him. "I ran out," she shrugs.

He trails a hand up her torso. "Walter's probably gonna wake up soon."

"So?" she whispers, biting her lip.

He smiles. "You know, I think he can survive without us for a little while."

"You sure?" she teases.

He kisses her, and doesn't pull away until they're tangled together.

"Absolutely."

* * *

**A/N: Merry Christmas Fringies! I've been working on this for two days for you guys...Hope you like it! Reviews are great presents!**


	23. When One Door Closes

"_When is a door not a door?"_

"So I tore holes in both the universes that lead here, to this room. A bridge, so that we can work together to fix—"

"Fix what? He stole you!" his father yells.

"I saved his life!" Walter yells back.

"Hey!" Olivia shouts, and everyone stops. "Now I know we are all confused and have plenty of reasons to hate each other, but let's please take a moment to _calmly_ figure this out."

"Thank you," Peter sighs.

With a deep breath, he continues. "I have seen the future, and it is worse than any of you could possibly imagine. If I had made the decision to save this world," he gestures to Walter and Olivia, "like I have before, we would all die. While their world survises, it is irreparably damaged—in worse condition than your world has ever been," he tells his father. "The two worlds are indispensable, they are connected. They always have been and always will be. _One world cannot survive without the other_."

The room is silent for a long time as they all digest this new and elemental discovery.

Walter looks up. "How did you start the machine without Peter?"

Walternate smirks, and looks at Liv. "Are you going to tell them, or should I?"

In her eyes, a look of pure, unadulterated rage is followed by one of equal fear.

She finds Peter's gaze. "You have a son."

Peter's jaw goes slack and his eyes shoot from Liv to Olivia. Both watch him with nervous anticipation.

But it's Walter who speaks first. "Oh, my."

Peter's brain goes into overdrive, creating too many questions and not enough answers.

"When?" he chokes out.

Liv looks down as if realizing she's in a prisoner's jumpsuit. "About a month."

"How?" Olivia whispers. "It's only been…"

"Three months? Yeah, but I'm not sure I know well enough how to answer that. Would you like to, _sir_?"

"You accelerated the pregnancy and used the chromosomes inherited from Peter to start the machine," Walter answers.

"I would've lost the baby. Neither one or both of us wouldn't have survived childbirth. I was a carrier for VPE."

What killed your sister?" Olivia asks.

Liv nods, a little shocked at Olivia's knowledge.

"What is his name?" Peter interjects. He hadn't spoken in several minutes and looked about ready to collapse.

"Henry, after the man who delivered him."

"Henry Higgins?" Olivia whispers.

"Yes," Liv says.

Olivia looked like she was going to cry.

In the silence following, Olivia realizes there are other people in the room.

Broyles and Astrid and a handful of Massive Dynamic techs are frozen behind her, while the other Brandon Fayette and several DoD techs are just as still behind Liv.

"What happens now?" Liv asks quietly, but easily heard in the surrounding emptiness.

No one answers; no one knows.

"_When is a door not a door?_

_When it's a jar (ajar)."_

**A/N: I don't like this. But I'm posting it anyway, because I liked the idea but I didn't execute it very well. And I didn't do the proper research, so the quotes are probably wrong. Tell me what you liked, tell me what you didn't. Tell me how your Christmas went, if you want to. Reviews are copied and pasted and printed to be placed on my wall :D**


	24. Breakthrough

"_You were the only thing that kept me going."_

When she was lying in the hospital bed, half-asleep and gripping his hand firmly, even with her hair still red he could already see a myriad of differences. But, unfortunately, he could only see them now that he knows to look for them, not explain and rationalize them away.

And it hurt him so much to see her there, beaten and broken but still wanting him, still searching him out even though he's committed this…horrible act.

Granted, she hadn't known yet. But it loomed over him, so heavy and dark that surely she could see it hanging there. His inner torment so overflowed that it might have been visible to the naked eye.

As she sleeps, he waits. He waits for her to get better, waits for her to let go so he can escape, waits for something in her to just click and understand what had been happening.

But, alas, eventually he will have to tell her. Whether or not he wants to, he knows that they will have this talk. And it'll be more painful than anything he can possibly imagine.

"_I held on to you, and you were just a figment of my imagination."_

That night, in the garden, as she walked away from him, from them, from everything that could have been, he whispered "I'm sorry."

If she heard, she made no indication. She kept on walking, while he replayed her flinching at his touch, her face as he told her, her tears as she let him go just minutes before.

Even now, intermixed with the memory of her that was still fresh in his mind, he went over every detail from the past weeks and found places where he should have noticed something wrong, where he should have said to himself, "Hey, that's odd."

He was sure he wasn't the only one who noticed. But was he the only one who had dismissed the differences offhand? Did someone else realize it before he had?

"_He still has feelings for her."_

Whether her body had finally decided to let the hard liquor impair her judgment or the realization that he had more answers to her questions than anyone else could ever provide had overridden every other instinct in her body, her phone was against her ear and the soft ringing was snapping her back into awareness before she could stop herself.

"_Hello?_" he asks softly, tiredly.

"Peter, it's me. Did I wake you?"

"_Nah_," he dismisses, probably lying. "_I don't sleep much lately._"

Neither do I, she thinks.

"_Are you okay?_" he asks when she doesn't speak for a few moments.

"Yeah," she says automatically. A second later, she back tracks. "I mean no. Uh…"

He waits on the other end of the line, and she can hear him breathing faintly.

"Could you come over?" She doesn't explain, can't over the phone. She can't let this go, and if she doesn't do it now she'll talk herself out of it later.

"_I'll be there in twenty_," he says. He doesn't ask, and she's grateful.

The phone clicks, signaling that he's hung up. Olivia releases a breath she hadn't meant to hold for so long.

By the time he raps on her door—three times—she's already had two more glasses of whiskey and has probably worn a ten-foot long path in the carpet from her pacing. She hastily folds the letter sitting on her coffee table up and tucks it into the pocket of her slacks.

She opens the door, and Peter looks like hell.

"You look like hell," she says.

He doesn't respond. She takes a step back to let him into the apartment. He hesitates, but steps out of the doorway.

She walks back around to her couch while he remains in the entrance. She picks up her glass and refills it.

"What's up?" he asks slowly.

"I don't know, really," she shrugs. "I was just thinking and next thing I know, I'm calling you."

"Huh," he says. His hands are burrowed deep into the pockets of his jacket, and he steps to his right, away from the wall near the door.

Suddenly, Olivia realizes how stupid this was. He is probably just as uncomfortable in this apartment as she is.

"This is about her, isn't it?" he asks, almost inaudibly.

"Isn't it all?" she says dryly, taking a long drink from her glass.

"It wasn't supposed to be," he says, more confident than before. "It was never supposed to be about her. Or anyone, for that matter, other than us."

Olivia sinks down into the couch and pretends not to see him grimace.

"But it is," she whispers, "It is."

Peter's suddenly moving, around to her and sitting on the couch opposite her. He's careful not to sit too close, but he doesn't sit clear at the other end. "Don't let it."

"How?" she asks without thinking.

He leans forward slightly, hands in his lap. "I understand what you're feeling. I do, because I'm feeling it, too. Maybe not entirely the same, but I am."

She struggles to let herself look him in the eye. Her knuckles go pale around her glass.

"And I get that you don't want to be with me anymore. I don't even want to be with me."

She fights a smile. He does, too.

"But don't let her ruin everything else. It's still your life, 'Livia."

"What about your life?" she whispers softly.

He sighs, and it's one of the worst things she's ever heard. "She didn't ruin my life. I did. And I have to deal with that on my own."

They're silent for what feels like a long time, but probably isn't.

"Do you love her?"

"What?" he asks.

"You and her were in a relationship," she shrugs. "It's only natural that you would develop feelings for her."

"But I thought I was in a relationship with you," he whispers. "Any feelings I have are for you."

"But you can't know that for sure. Maybe you really did love her, maybe she was all the things that I just couldn't be for you."

He looks her in the eye, takes a silent breath and says, "I don't want anything but you."

She wants to kiss him. For a moment, she wants nothing more than to kiss him right then and there. But the moment passes, and it just makes her heart hurt.

"Olivia, that's all I've ever wanted. For longer than I'd ever realized, or could even admit to myself, all I've wanted was you."

Her heartbeat quickens. Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.

"Why else would I have tried to kiss you that night in New York?"

She remembers it, in that secluded room in Massive Dynamic, when he'd held her and said he'd never met anyone who could do the things that she did.

She remembers feeling scared, but she remembers feeling something else. Beneath her fear, she felt something that, at the time, she refused to recognize because of what it meant, what it could mean.

The feelings creep back under her skin and spread through her, causing her to involuntarily take in a sharp breath.

She pushes them back, afraid their presence will have the same effect that got them into this mess.

When she chances a glance at him, it's just him staring her down with soft, pained eyes.

Her hand slides out of her lap and into her pocket. He looks down to see what she's doing, furrowing his brow at the piece of paper she retrieves.

She holds it out to him, still folded. He takes it cautiously, watching her as he unfolds and only looking down at it when it's completely revealed.

At first, he doesn't even react. He just scans the few short words over and over and over, his eyes barely moving.

The fact that he doesn't react scares her more than anything.

He looks up at her, and his eyes are just so empty. So hollow, staring her down like she's not even really there.

And without a word, he stands. He crumples the paper with both hands and lets it fall into his place on the couch. Then he walks around and out the door.

Olivia's frozen in shock until she can hear his footsteps receding down the hall outside her door.

She gets up and goes to the open door, stopping on the threshold. "Wait," she calls.

He turns instantly and before she can react, his hand is cradling her face and he's kissing her more passionately than he had that night on the Other Side, when she asked him to come back with her, for her.

Her hands curl against his chest and she can feel his heartbeat, so much faster than she expected but just as quick as her own.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthu mpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpt humpthumpthumpthump.

When he pulls back from her lips, forehead against hers, she's afraid to open her eyes.

And with some sort of brand-new conviction, he whispers, "I thought she was _you_."

Suddenly, the words have new meaning. They don't just mean "I made a mistake" or "I couldn't tell the difference".

They say "I needed it to be you" and "I couldn't give up on us".

And while it still hurts, it's still a reminder that even Peter can make a mistake, it's also a reassurance that he still wants _this_, that he hasn't given up on _this_ at all.

He starts to pull back but she won't let him.

He kisses her once, twice.

When he pulls back again, she lets him go. He whispers, "When you're ready," then turns and walks away.

She watches until long after he's gone.

Not yet, she thinks as she walks back in to her apartment, but soon.

**A/N: This angst-fest is brought to you by 'Cruel Intentions' and 2:30am insomnia. Let me know if you're confused, because I certainly am. Off to bed.**


	25. Stubborn

Her knuckles were stark-white as they clenched at the bedsheets. Her body convulsed, and Peter could feel the muscle spasms in her back beneath his hands.

"'Livia," he sighs, rubbing his hand over her back in long, soothing strokes.

"Peter, go home," she manages out between retches, "I'm fine."

"Absolutely not," is all he says, pressing a kiss against her warm, sweaty forehead.

Apparently, Olivia Dunham was just as stubborn when she was sick.

* * *

They had had back-to-back-to-back cases for the past couple weeks, neither of them really getting any sort of rest. He always had to coax her into eating something; she just didn't put her own body first when it came to work.

That, in turn, led to a serious bout of the stomach flu, no doubt picked up from one of their witnesses.

It had begun as fatigue, some minor nausea, and one or two close calls of fainting (at least, that's all he could see, it's all she was willing to admit to). The next morning after they wrapped the final case, Olivia didn't wake before Peter as she normally did.

He took the opportunity to get a leg up on her morning, padding silently to the kitchen and starting on breakfast. About midway through the first omelet, he heard her pounding footsteps and the slam of the toilet lid on the tank.

Worried, he left to check on her.

It wasn't a pretty sight.

Eventually, Peter gave up on breakfast. Olivia remained next to the toilet bowl for several hours before she passed out, propped up against the bathtub.

After calling Broyles and filling him in on her condition, Peter picked her up and carried her to the bed; she was burning up. He changed her clothes into a camisole and a pair of his boxers so she wouldn't be overheated, and he laid a cold washcloth on her forehead.

Several hours more, Olivia woke to a glass of water, a couple Tylenol and an empty trash can waiting for her. All three were put to use in a matter of minutes.

When he heard her, Peter padded back in to the bedroom and that's when she started to tell him to go home to Walter.

And though Olivia Dunham was stubborn, Peter was fully prepared to give her a run for her money.

* * *

Day two is not much different than day one. Peter changes the bedsheets and Olivia's clothes while she sleeps, cleans out her trash can, and gets her more water and Tylenol. He checks and her fever's gone down slightly, but not much.

On day two, though, Olivia only tries to tell Peter to leave once before giving up and letting him take care of her. Before nightfall, he manages to get a piece of dry toast in her.

It only stayed down for maybe twenty minutes.

When it gets dark, and Peter finally gets off the phone with Walter (and Astrid, at the lab). He pads back to the bedroom and brings Olivia a fresh glass of water, only to find her asleep and almost falling off the bed.

He gently positions her back on the mattress and lays down beside her, laying as close as possible without actually touching her (he was afraid too much contact would overheat her again), with the exception of his hand spread across the expanse of her stomach.

They both sleep through the night.

* * *

When Peter wakes the next morning, he finds Olivia curled into his chest. She still has a few strands of hair plastered to her forehead, but he temperature had gone down significantly.

She, on the other hand, was awake and watching him peacefully. "Good morning," she whispers, careful not to breathe on him.

"'Morning," he replies, brushing the hair out of her face. "Feeling better?"

She sighs, "Yes, actually." She kisses his bare chest, his neck. "Thank you for taking care of me."

"What was I supposed to do, leave you here to puke your guts out all by yourself?" he laughs.

She grimaces. "No, I suppose not. But thank you, anyway."

He kisses her forehead. "I love you."

"You too," she whispers before falling asleep again.

* * *

**A/N: Season three fluffiness! Whoop! Please please please please please review? (Come on, that's _FIVE_ pleases.) Hasta!**


	26. Whatever

The muscles in her back run completely parallel from her shoulder blades to her hips—or, at least, that's how they look to him, while she sleeps. In his bed.

A place he more recently thought she would never end up.

And he's still in disbelief, still half-convinced this is all a dream as he reaches over and traces the dip in her back.

Even in unconsciousness, she leans into his touch, arches her back and shifts those perfectly parallel lines until they curve inward, almost like back-to-back parentheses.

He hesitates, almost pulls away so that she can fall back asleep and he can watch her a little longer. But the desire to touch her wins out and his hand trails up, towards her neck.

He softly brushes her hair away, runs a tender thumb over her neck.

She stiffens, then relaxes. She exhales quietly out of her nose and turns her head in his direction.

Her eyes aren't open yet, but she still murmurs a small "hi."

He chuckles softly to himself, and she peeks out of one eye. "Hi," he says.

His hand washes over her cheek, and her eyes close again as she leans into him. Her nose brushes his thumb, and she smiles.

"It's _early_," she whispers.

He sighs, tucks some hair behind the curve of her ear without moving his palm. "I know."

"Can't sleep?"

He grins. "Don't want to."

She doesn't answer right away, shifting onto her side and scooting over in his direction. Her arm snakes around his torso, and her first finger traces patterns into his shoulder.

"Why not?" she asks after an eternity.

"Because," he pauses, searching for the right words. "I don't want to wake up and find you gone."

She lifts her head, lays her cheek on his chest—just above his heart. No doubt she can hear how fast it is as he looks at her.

"Do I need to pinch you?" she teases. "To make sure you're not dreaming?"

"Probably wouldn't hurt," he plays.

"She lifts a hand and pinches his stomach, earning her a soft "ow!"

"No dream," she declares.

"That wasn't a challenge, you know," he says, rubbing the pink mark on his abdomen.

"Don't be a baby," she murmurs tiredly. "Get some sleep."

There's a beat of silence before he asks, "Will you still be here when I wake up?"

She nods into him, tightening her hold.

"Promise," she whispers, and then she's asleep once again.

* * *

When he wakes, the bed is cold next to him. It takes him several seconds to remember, but he does and pulls the blanket away to find the space empty beside him.

Could he really have dreamed it all?

He's breathing a sigh of relief, though, as he hears bare footsteps in the hall beyond his door and she slips inside, wearing nothing but one of his old t-shirts.

"Hey," she whispers when she notices he's awake. "I didn't mean to wake you, but I had to pee."

"You didn't," he says passively, just now hearing the rush of water through the old pipes hidden within the walls.

She sits herself down on the edge of the bed, legs crossed and facing him.

"When do you have to go get your father?" she asks quietly, lacing her fingers around the curve of one knee.

"I don't know," he sighs. "Not for a few more hours, at least."

She nods complacently, leaning forward and folding herself back into the bed, and his arms.

"Do you have time for a breakfast run with me?" She speaks slowly, as if he might say no.

But when she looks up at him with that beautiful, shy smile, his answer is anything but.

"_Maybe_," he teases. "What did you have in mind?"

Her smiles changes, playful and knowing, now. "I think I know a place."

"Good," he whispers, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her further into the bed. "'Cause I am _not_ cooking."

"Whatever," she murmurs, and kisses him.

_This time_, he thinks.

* * *

**A/N: This is a sequel ficlet to 'Fixing It' (AKA Chapter 16 of this series) which also makes it a 6-B morning-after fic. Sorry I haven't posted anything in a while, school and stuff are kicking my butt, I was cast in the school play, and my muse is a little flighty as of late. I'm hoping to write more soon, but I have no idea how the next few weeks—or months—are going to play out. Reviews help!**


	27. Nature vs Nurture 1

The cold was the hardest for Liv.

On her side, they didn't really have a winter—not like this. It got cold, sure, but not like Over Here. Over Here was frozen.

As she walks down the street beside her doppelganger, which was a rare occasion indeed, her breath floats in front of her thick as cigarette smoke.

God, she hadn't had a cigarette in…fifteen years. She had been a junior in high school and her boyfriend had smoked. She tried it and picked up the habit—until she broke up with him. She hadn't touched one since.

Olivia picked up speed beside her and she fought to match her pace in the blistering chill.

Strangers passed with only mildly confused glances and they were left to make the most logical—and, in a way, not wrong—assumptions about the look-a-like pair.

"You ever smoked?" Liv asks suddenly, and Olivia slows down slightly.

"No." She doesn't turn to her when she answers, just keeps walking.

"You didn't have a boyfriend in high school who smoked?" Liv pushes her hands further into her pockets and grits her teeth when a breeze hits.

Olivia smirks. "I didn't really date in high school."

"Oh."

They walk the rest of the way in silence until Olivia says, "Here it is." They duck into the doorway and as the glass door opens, the warm air rushes over them.

"The fifth floor, right?" Liv asks, unbuttoning her jacket but not removing it and unwrapping her scarf from her neck.

Olivia does the same. "Uh, yeah," she sighs as they slide off their hats.

As they head for the elevator, Liv runs through their cover story—even though she doesn't need to.

Peter had told them that the closer to the truth the lie was, the easier it would be to tell. Olivia had been unsure about the name they agreed on, but Liv assured her it would be fine.

They reach the floor they want and walk up to a reception desk. "We're here to see Mr. Walden," Olivia says.

"Do you have an appointment?" the small woman asks, not unkindly.

Olivia flashes her badge and the woman's smile tenses. "I'll just call him to let him know you're here."

They nod and take a step back, giving her a little room to make the call.

Liv glances at Olivia and she smiles lightly. "This is going to be…_interesting_," she whispers.

Olivia chuckles. "Yeah," she says.

The receptionist hangs up the phone and looks up at them. "Mr. Walden will see you now."

Liv steps past Olivia, "Showtime."

He gets up from his desk when they enter.

"Mr. Walden?" Olivia asks.

"Yes. And you are?" He puts out his hand for a handshake, and Olivia notices his palms are a little sweaty.

"I'm Agent Olivia Dunham."

He turns to Liv, and she also notices how his grip is a little tighter than necessary. "Agent _Rachel_ Dunham, sir."

He looks between them for a moment. "Can I just say—the resemblance between you two is uncanny. Well, except for the hair."

He smiles nervously and they both nod. He pauses, then returns to his desk. "So, what can I do for you today?"

"We had some questions about a former employee of yours, a Russell Greene," Olivia says, taking the lead.

Liv lets her counterpart direct the conversation, only asking questions when it feels necessary or she needs clarification.

She does this for two reasons: one, it is Olivia's investigation and, after all, her _world_; two, because some things are different here, and if Liv were to slip up that could cost them big.

The not-interrogation goes on for about ten minutes, with Liv taking mental notes the entire time. Olivia actually takes notes, pen jotting every few seconds. Liv catches a glance of her page and is both surprised and not to find they have identical handwriting, and that Olivia writes in shorthand and she has to decode several of the notes.

By the end of the interview, Mr. Walden had relaxed only slightly and they stood to depart the office.

"Would you mind if we walked around a little, talked to a few people?" Liv asks as they're walking out the door.

"Sure," he says, and his phone rings.

He takes the call and they leave.

Once they've left the building, with little new information, Olivia looks at Liv. "Coffee?"

Liv smiles. "Yes, please."

They turn and walk.

"You did well," Olivia says.

"Thanks."

"Why did you ask if I ever smoked, earlier?"

Liv shrugs. "I did, in high school. For about six months. I was totally head-over-heels for this guy, a bad-boy type, and it was just something I picked up. I quit, when we broke up, and I've never smoked again."

"I thought you said you liked the nice guys?" Olivia says with a smirk.

"I do _now_," she says. "That, actually, was the last of the jerks that I dated."

"What made you change your mind?"

"I don't know," she sighs. "I think it was just time. I didn't date again until college, and by then I had grown up a little."

"There were a few guys in high school that had crushes on me, but I never really liked any of them that way. My first official boyfriend was in college, and he was a total ass. Not to me, he just didn't really take life seriously. We didn't last very long. I didn't date much after that, and never anything big until John."

"Your partner who died?"

She nods.

"Has that been your only real relationship?" Liv asks.

There's a moment before she responds.

"No," Olivia says firmly, with the hint of a smile.

Olivia doesn't explain and Liv doesn't ask. She has a feeling she knows, anyway.

**A/N: Based in mid-ish Season 4. Case is irrelevant and made up. I don't know how I feel about the name-thing, but I'm going with it. I like Season 4 Liv better than Season 3, but that may only be because she was a total homewrecker (even though she was pretty awesome at it). I have another one of these that's currently in progress, but it's not connected story-wise. It's just another Olivia/Liv fic that examines how their lives are similar/different. Review?**


	28. Something's Wrong Part II

"_Peter, I'm worried."_

"_Don't be. You just have to wake up," Peter whispers._

"_What?"_

_He pulls away to look at her, and his voice doesn't match his lips all the way. He sounds like he's crying, but his face is uniform in front of her. "Please, just wake up."_

_She feels his hand on her face before it's there. Almost like her eyes are trying to catch up with her mind. "Peter, what's going on?"_

"_Please, Liv, you gotta wake up. For our baby, for me. Come back to me."_

_Then, it's as if the world melts around her, and she opens her eyes._

"Oh my god, Olivia."

Her eyesight is blurry, but she can make out Peter's form above her.

"Peter?" she asks, and her throat is sore as she speaks. She blinks a few times before she can see clearly.

His eyes are swollen from crying and he looks as if he hasn't slept in days. "Liv, thank god. We'd thought we'd lost you."

"What?" Her thoughts are a haze and nothing is clear to her. "Where are we?"

"We're in the lab. Liv, do you remember what happened?"

She shakes her head, but immediately regrets it. It makes her head pound and the splitting headache is very suddenly apparent. "I remember being home and making dinner and…" she trails off.

Peter looks confused. "An Observer attacked you. September tried to block him, but you were knocked out. You've been unconscious for almost three days."

The words seep in and she sits upright, ignoring the pain in her back and skull. "The baby? How is she?"

"The baby's fine, Walter did an ultrasound when we got you back here."

"Oh, Peter," she sighs, and throws her arms around his neck.

"I was so scared, Olivia. I was afraid you wouldn't wake up."

She pulls away a little and his hand rests on her cheek. "Oh, it's all so fuzzy," she sighs.

Peter helps her down from the hospital bed and she pulls the sensors from her head and chest. "Where are Walter and Astrid?" she asks, groaning at the aches slowly surfacing beneath every inch of skin.

"Sleeping."

"And September?"

Peter looks tired. And sad. "He went into hiding. He's supposed to make contact in a few hours."

"Oh."

She stands, unsure of what to do now that she's awake. She feels a little shift in her stomach.

Peter wraps his arms around her tightly, but not so tight that it's painful. "You scared me," he whispers.

He holds her for what feels like seconds and millennia all at the same time. When he finally—and too soon—pulls away, his lips seem too enticing and Olivia leans in closer.

"I'm sorry," she whispers before kissing him.

His hand cups the back of her neck and something within her kicks again—hard. Peter pulls away, looking at her stomach.

"I felt that," he whispers to her stomach.

Olivia giggles softly.

"Olivia?" she hears somewhere behind her.

She looks over her shoulder, still in Peter's arms, and sees Walter in his pajamas.

He smiles. "Good morning, dear. How are you feeling?" He shuffles his slippers in their direction.

"A little tired and sore and confused, but otherwise I'm pretty okay."

He grabs a blood pressure cuff and wraps it around her arm without asking.

"Well, that's wonderful. That you're okay, not the other things."

She wants to laugh. "Thank you, Walter."

After the measurement, he declares, "Your blood pressure is a little high, but that could just be the pregnancy. You seem to be in tip-top shape again, my dear."

Peter squeezes her hand.

"Do you want me to wake Asterix?"

"No, it's fine. I'll see her in the morning."

Walter smiles tiredly. "Well, I'm going back to bed. Son, you should get some sleep." He shuffles back into his office-slash-bedroom.

"You really should sleep," Olivia whispers.

"I think you've slept enough for the both of us for now," he jokes.

"Peter, really. You look terrible. Lay down, at least."

He nods, yawns. "Fine."

She pushes him in the direction of the cot she had been occupying only minutes ago, and he falls into it. She takes up in his chair and he holds his grip on her hand.

"I dreamed while I was asleep," she whispers, after he closes his eyes.

"About what?"

"About you. And the baby."

"Yeah?"

"And what our lives would be like if we were normal."

"What's 'normal'?" he asks, feigning innocence.

"Yeah," she laughs softly.

**A/N: I know you guys have waited for a reaaaaaaally long time for this one, but I kind of hit a wall after part 1. I wrapped it up as best I could. Sorry about the wait, but thank you for being patient! Review?**


	29. Overalls

**Props to my new beta, jayitaintso ! Looking forward to more input!**

* * *

As Olivia descends the stairs—slowly, taking each step with caution and control—she calls out to Peter.

"Yeah?" he replies from the kitchen, sounding like he has a mouthful of whatever he's preparing for dinner.

"I think it's time!" she calls back, finally stepping off the last stair.

He appears out of nowhere, indeed mid-bite, with wide eyes. "Really?" he asks. "Right now?"

She nods calmly, and he disappears into the kitchen once again.

He's back to her side in moments, and she puts down the suitcase they packed a month before and had remained in the corner of their bedroom until about five minutes ago.

"Where's Etta?" he asks.

Olivia places a hand against the denim straining against the immense swell of her abdomen, and takes a deep breath. "In her room, playing."

"Should I call Astrid?"

"I already did. She's on her way, with Jonathan."

Peter nods anxiously. "Okay, uh…let's get you to the car."

Olivia's already headed in the direction of the garage, slowly but surely, rolling the suitcase behind her, while Peter's still at the foot of the stairs looking rather unsure of what to do with himself.

"Peter, it's going to be fine. Take a deep breath, or take a minute to collect your thoughts. There's no hurry."

He looks up at her, as if seeing her for the first time since she came downstairs. "Are you really going to wear the overalls?"

"Yes, so hush," she says with a smirk, opening the door and walking into the garage.

* * *

Olivia had only been three months pregnant when she found the overalls.

Her and Peter had been shopping for maternity clothes, and passed a small little consignment shop. What Olivia found inside would accompany her through the rest of her pregnancy, and the next one.

* * *

Astrid arrived not long after Olivia called. Olivia greeted them from the open garage, where she was loading her suitcase into the backseat.

"Hello!" Astrid calls as she climbs out of her car.

"Hey!" Olivia calls back. She moves out into the driveway, approaching the small blue vehicle. Astrid opens up the door to the backseat where Jonathan, her two-year-old son, waves wildly to Olivia.

Astrid lifted the boy swiftly from his seat and onto her hip, pulling a diaper bag onto her shoulder and elbowing the car door closed. "How are you doing?"

She smiles, nods. "Good," she says, lifting a hand to block the harsh sun from her eyes. "Better than Peter."

Astrid chuckles softly. "Freaking out? Yeah, Will did that, too."

Olivia shakes her head, "I don't know what's up with him. He didn't do this at all with Etta. He was calmer than I was, back then. I think it may have something to do with Walter."

Astrid nods.

"Liva!" Jonathan calls, reaching for her.

"Hey, Jon-Jon!" she coos at the small boy, leaning in to kiss his head. "What's up, little monster?"

"Eda!" he says, and Astrid smiles.

"He was so excited when he heard we were coming to see you guys."

"Well, let's get you inside then," she says, hands on her hips. Astrid follows her into the house through the garage, and sets Jon down on the hardwood floor of the living room.

Peter comes walking in, looking much calmer than before but still slightly unsettled. "Hey, Astrid. Thanks for coming on such short notice."

"No problem, Peter. Jonathan needed someone to play with, anyway."

He sinks into a crouch in front of the boy and smiles. "Hey, little man." He puts his arms around him and lifts him high into the air before laying him over his shoulder. Jonathan giggles wildly the whole time, and Olivia smiles. "Ready to go see Etta?" he asks.

"Yeah, yeah!"

"Then let's go!" Peter exclaims, spinning them both in a circle and travelling up the stairs, the small boy giggling all the time.

Astrid smiles after them. "He'll be fine, Liv. He's Peter."

"I know," Olivia sighs, and takes a step in the direction of the kitchen.

* * *

Olivia hadn't worn the overalls after Etta was born because they were too big. But one day, when Etta was almost five, she came downstairs and found Peter and Etta playing in the living room. Well, Peter was telling Etta how to build a tower taller than her and she would knock it down so they could do it again.

Olivia walked in and took a seat on the couch, wrapped up in a sweater. It was an unusually chilly early-September day. She tucked her feet underneath her and watched the two of them.

Peter looked up at her after a few moments, and she smiled.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said. "Just watching two people I love being ridiculous."

"Really, ridiculous?" he asked. He turned to Etta. "Are we being ridiculous?"

"I don't know," she said to her father with wide eyes, then giggled and nodded.

"Of course," he sighs.

Etta fled to the couch and climbed into her mother's lap. Olivia kissed her daughter's head and wrapped her arms around the girl's tiny body. "Have you told him yet?" she whispered into her daughter's ear, quiet enough that Peter wouldn't hear.

Etta smiled, looked at her mother and shook her head.

Peter turned and looked at his wife and daughter.

"What?" Olivia asked.

"Nothing," he said with a smirk, "Just watching two people I love being secretive."

Olivia smiled and whispered something else in Etta's ear.

"Seriously, you two, what are you hiding?" Peter asked.

"Nothing," Etta lied, giggling softly.

"Really? So if I came over there and tickled you, nothing would happen?"

Etta squeaked and curled into her mother's chest.

Peter stood and walked over to them on the couch, sat down on the floor before Olivia and started to lift his daughter from her lap.

Etta squealed and held a hand tight to her mother's sweater, which fell open.

Peter tickled Etta for several moments before he looked back to his wife.

With the sweater open, it showed the layer of denim beneath that spread across her chest. With it closed, it looked like she was wearing normal jeans, but now Peter could see what she was really wearing—the overalls.

His head tilted in thought before he looked to his wife with the wide eyes that looked so much like their daughter's.

"Overalls?" he asked

From his lap, Etta yelled, "Surprise!"

* * *

In the kitchen, Olivia was eating Peter's Mac and Cheese straight from the pot, and chatting with Astrid. Every few minutes she would stop, put a hand to her stomach, take a deep breath.

After the first three, Astrid asks, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Olivia says. "Contractions. They're not terrible, this time around."

Peter comes in from the stairs with Etta and Jonathan following behind him like baby ducks following their mother.

"Ready to go?" he asks, breathing heavy as if he had been running. Knowing the two children, he might have been.

Olivia takes one last bite and nods, placing her fork in the sink and the pot back on the stove. "Give Etta the rest of that if she gets hungry. That was supposed to be dinner," she says to Astrid.

Peter takes her hand and twines his fingers through hers, bringing it gently to his lips.

"Mom, where are you going?" Etta asks.

"We are going to the hospital so I can have your baby brother," Olivia says, leaning down slightly.

"When are you coming back?" she asks.

"I don't know, sweetheart," Olivia says, running a hand over her daughter's long blonde hair—one of the few things she inherited from Olivia. "As soon as your brother's ready, we'll bring him home. Shouldn't be gone more than a day."

"Okay," she agrees easily. "But I get to hold him first when you come back."

Olivia smiles. "Maybe," she says softly.

Etta wraps her arms around her mother as best she can—her hands didn't meet, but rested on her waist. "I love you. Hurry up, brother."

Olivia, Peter, and Astrid all laugh.

"Well, we better get going before we have to deliver in our kitchen. Liv, you good?" Peter asks.

"Yeah, let's go."

Astrid crouches to the floor, where Etta and Jonathan flock into her open arms. "Wave," she whispers to the children, and they do.

Olivia and Peter wave back from the door to the garage before it closes behind them.

* * *

"Ow," Olivia said in the lab one day. Her hand went to her swollen stomach, and she leaned back against the edge of a table.

"What?" Peter asked from a few feet away.

"Nothing, just some pain in my side."

Walter also looked up from the body they were dissecting on his slab. "Contractions?"

"No, Walter. She's not due for another week and a half."

"Due dates are not precise, my dear. You could have your baby at almost any moment past 38 weeks."

"It's not contractions, Walter," Olivia insisted adamantly.

"I wouldn't push it, Walter," Peter whispered.

"If need be, I could deliver her here. I have all the equipment…"

"We're not having the baby in the lab, Walter," Peter said.

"You had ultrasounds here! Why not just stay here and save the trip?"

"No," Peter and Olivia said in unison.

* * *

Peter pulls the SUV out of the garage, down the driveway next to Astrid's car, and onto the road.

Olivia places a hand on his arm. "Are you okay now?" she asks quietly.

He turns to her and smiles. "Yeah. Sorry about freaking out on you for a minute. It's just…"

"Walter," Olivia says. It's all she has to say.

Peter swallows. "Yes."

"It's okay to miss him, Peter. It's actually expected."

"It's not that I miss him," he says, "I do, but that's not it. I just remembered him asking to deliver Etta in the lab and the memory kind of caught me off guard."

Olivia smiles softly. "I remembered that, too. Right about the time my water broke."

Peter didn't say anything for a long time.

"He'll never get to meet his grandson."

Olivia sighs. "You know, I don't remember a whole lot from this timeline, but one thing that always stuck around was my memory of Walter. I remember getting him from St. Claire's, and I remember that he almost never left the lab, and I remember how he talked about you as a boy when he was high and how much he wanted a real family. For a long time, he didn't have any. After, it was just me and Astrid. Until you."

Peter wouldn't look at her.

"He loved you, Peter. More than anything. And wherever he is right now, he knows that you miss him. That we all miss him. And he knows about his grandson."

Peter had tried to understand Olivia's explanation of what had happened to Walter, of what had happened in another version of the future, but he still didn't understand how she knew, how Astrid knew and he didn't. But he believed them.

"Let's go have a baby," he says.

* * *

In 2167, Walter and Michael walk into a house. It is only a skeleton of what had been there once, but Walter still recognizes it.

He wanders the rooms, holding tight to Michael's hand. In the living room, a man stands, waiting.

He looks up to find Walter and the boy.

"Hello," he says softly. He looks to be in his late teens or early twenties, and he wears a leather jacket that Walter hadn't expected.

"Hello," Walter says. "Who are you?"

"My name's Peter."

"That was my son's name," Walter says.

"I know. He was also my great-great-great grandfather. I think," he says, looking mildly confused.

Looking closer, Walter could see a resemblance. He had Peter's facial structure, but the man was fair-haired, and quite skinny.

"What are you doing here?"

Peter smirked. "Well, you're kind of a family legend. The rumor is that in 2015, you disappeared into the future to do something really important. And the day you're supposed to end up is here, so I came to see if it was true."

"Oh," Walter says softly.

"Welcome to the future, Walter Bishop. I'm not a Bishop, but I have a couple cousins who are."

Walter was looking rather bemused, listening to this boy's story. Michael listened intently.

"Both my father and grandfather were named Walter. And my great-great-grandfather, your son's son. Well, your grandson."

"Peter named his boy after me?"

"Seems so, Gramps. But I can't really recite the whole family tree for you, there were a lot of people since 2015. That's why there's this."

The boy sunk into a crouch, taking out what looked to be a pocketknife and opening it. He pried loose a floorboard, and another next to it.

Walter stepped closer to see what was inside. It was a safe, about the size of a mini-fridge, hidden in the floor. Written on it in Peter's—his Peter's—handwriting was his name.

"So, the combo's apparently something important, something from the future-slash-past you came from. 2036."

Walter smiled. "So Olivia remembered. I hoped she would."

Walter lets go of Michael's hand and crawls to his knees on the hardwood floor. He takes the dial and enters the code that, in his mind, he used only weeks ago.

"Five," he whispers. "Twenty, ten."

The safe clicks loudly, unlocking.

He pulls the door open and the first thing he sees is a pair of old denim overalls.

"Oh, Olivia," he sighs.

Tucked in the pocket of the denim was a letter, slightly yellowed with time.

He opened it.

_Walter,_

_We hope that you and Michael have arrived safely. Locked in this safe, you will find detailed accounts of the lives of your grandchildren, and their children, and their children, and so on. We hope that the legend of Walter Bishop brings one of these descendants to you. We are long gone, but we hope that these memories will keep you company, as they did us. We love you and miss you._

_Olivia, Peter, Etta and Walt_

A tear streamed down Walter's face, and he felt a hand on his shoulder.

He looked back to find Michael smiling.

* * *

**A/N: So, I have like a whole Bishop and Co. Family Tree written out, but I don't know how I would even begin to put it on here. I suppose if you really wanted to know, PM me or review and I'll try to send it out. BTW, Astrid's line is totally in there. I really wanted her to have a happy ending, too.**


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